


Never Did Run Smooth

by greenlikethec



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Abusive Relationships, BAMF Hermione Granger, Divorce, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Good Draco Malfoy, Minister for Magic Hermione Granger, Multi, Post-Divorce, Ron Weasley Bashing, Slow Build, Slow Burn, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2019-10-28 00:37:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 81,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17777237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenlikethec/pseuds/greenlikethec
Summary: Minister Granger is in the fifth year as Minister of Magic. According to JKR, Hermione is made the Minister in 2019. I wanted to put this story in 2024 so that we were deep into her administration. At this time, Hermione is 45, Ron's ~44, Rose is 19, and Hugo is 15/16. She is uncertain about her future with her husband, Ron Weasley, when an unexpected figure reappears in her life. Meant as a one shot. Got a little carried away.If you are dedicated to the ship of Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger, look away now. CW: for those who have been in emotionally or physically abusive relationships. This may not be the fic for you.–The title is from Shakespeare, "The course of true love never did run smooth," from A Midsummer Night's Dream.–Many thanks to anemmeline for being a sounding board, an endlessly kind supporter, and a fabulous friend.





	1. Minister Granger

Minister Granger had been waiting for this bill to go through the Wizengamot for quite some time.  
  
When she was planning on leaving the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she had been anxious to know that someone capable would be able to take the reins. There was much to be done in that department, and while Hermione had done a considerable amount to advocate for the rights of specific creatures, she always had a terrible anxiety that whomever stepped in as the head of that department might make the policies even more regressive than they already were. And it had been that way for a time. Until Minister Granger stepped into this role. Now, she had the pleasure of hearing her longtime acquaintance deliver one of the most impassioned speeches that she had ever heard delivered to the Wizengamot. Penelope Clearwater had not seemed like the natural fit to Hermione to take over as the Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. While she and Penelope had stayed in touch after the Basilisk incident, Penelope seemed to be on a different track. A typical Ravenclaw, Hermione would have pegged Clearwater as the kind of student who immediately went into graduate school. Whereas Hermione had been the best at almost everything, Clearwater had a true talent for Transfiguration. It would have been easy to see her as the next McGonagall. Hermione had always appreciated her conjuring. There was something so beautifully fearless about it. With a soft smile, she remembered another time when she had witnessed that ferocity.  
  
After Hogwarts, they hadn’t kept in contact. It was only until, much later, when she had gotten a tip-off about some Occamy eggs that were being sold in an illegal deal near the Black Forest that their paths crossed again. Imagine her surprise when she apparated to the edge of the forest and found none other than Penelope Clearwater with her wand at the throat of the man Hermione had never seen before, with an Occamy egg in her hand.  
  
Later, Clearwater would explain that, in a roundabout way, it was the Basilisk attack that had piqued her interest in the care of magical creatures. Over a firewhiskey or two, she related to Hermione that she used to wake up to nightmares where Hermione had been petrified by the snake but Penelope hadn’t. And then the snake with its red eyes bore down on her.  
  
She had been terrified, she admitted, to get close to any magical creature again. And then Hagrid introduced her to a small dragon he had just hatched. (Hermione had bolted upright in her chair. Hagrid had promised them that there were to be no more dragons after Norbert. Then she laughed and shook her head. _Of course there wasn’t just one_ , Hermione chuckled to herself.) Clearwater’s eyes got a far-off look in them when she told Hermione about how the small dragon had flown into her hand, curled up like a dog in the center of her palm, licked her thumb, and went to sleep. Hermione could just imagine Hagrid’s choked up voice as he told Penelope she would never have anything to fear from a creature if she treated them with the respect that they deserved. After that, Penelope spent every day that she could with Hagrid and the dragon until Hagrid released it in its native home.  
  
“It’s probably the gentlest Hungarian Horntail that’s ever lived,” Penelope said with a laugh, shaking her blonde curls. Hermione straightened up again. _I really must get it through to Hagrid that not every creature is friendly_ , she thought, thinking of Aragog. After Hogwarts, Penelope had wandered, trying to locate as many magical creatures for herself as she could. She was inspired by Newt Scamander, she said. When she said this, Hermione considered her carefully over her glass of firewhiskey. “Then why don’t you follow his footsteps and join our department?”  
  
Clearwater looked shocked for a moment. “Is that an official offer?” She’d joked.  
  
Hermione shrugged. “It’s not my place to offer anything official. But the department head does owe me a favor or two.” As she drained her glass of firewhiskey, she did not mention exactly for what or how many salacious photos of him she had found of him engaging in some extremely flagrant acts while dressed as a niffler.  
  
Clearwater had been instated within the month. Then, when Hermione stepped into the position of Minister, she had immediately used her influence to promote Clearwater. She and Minister Granger had worked assiduously for months on this bill. If Hermione had still been the person she had been at Hogwarts, she might have ghostwritten this bill herself. But she wasn’t. And, besides, she didn’t have the time to.  
  
Clearwater was getting to the moment that Granger was the most nervous about. Hermione slid the nail of her thumb into her mouth and clamped it between her teeth but did not chew. Her shoulders were tense as Clearwater launched into her final proposal.  
  
“I move to have the following stipulations instated onto the werewolf registry of 1965. As you have seen from the bill in front of you, I am proposing today that all persons who have had the misfortune of having been infected with the disease have equal rights to their undiseased counterparts.This means that all persons who have been infected with the disease have equal access to job opportunities, housing, hospital treatment, and any other natural rights which are their ethical rights as self-autonomous beings. To do otherwise would be to unjustly infringe upon their rights as magical beings and take away their rightful dignity. And to remind the Wizengamot,” and here her bright blue eyes swept the court, “we are all magical beings. Unlike most magical beings, we have the strongest voice and the most power. As such, we must advocate for the voiceless and the powerless and must then reinstate those natural rights that they deserve.”  
  
_Yes_ , Hermione thought, biting down on the nail, though not hard enough to go through, _though it might be too little too late for some_. A wave of sadness went through her as she remembered a particular friend. Clearwater’s voice stirred her out of her reverie. “I move for a vote that this particular group of voiceless and powerless magical beings be given the respect that they have deserved ever since this registry was put into effect.”  
  
Minister Granger folded her arms over each other on the desk in front of her. “I second this vote. Those in favor –” She lifted her own arm and scanned the room, looking over her rimless reading glasses. Her usual allies were quick to shoot up their hands. She locked eyes with Harry, and shot the smallest smile briefly at Ronald, before continuing to scan the room. She was slightly shocked when Malfoy’s hand lifted. She watched as his knee jerked into Parkinson, and she, with a sigh, lifted her own pale hand. Minister Granger quirked an eyebrow and continued to scan the room. The rest of the former Death Eaters did not oblige her with a hand. When she had finished surveying the room, her aide, Cordelia, squeaked the tally in her ear. She gave the merest hint of a nod. “And those against?” Her eyes flicked around the room again. Now the latter crowd lifted their hands. _So, she thought, you will happily join with Fenrir Greyback when it suits you most but you would deny him his basic rights? Why am I not surprised..._  
  
Inexplicably, she glanced back at Malfoy. His face seemed to communicate the same thought, just with a disgusted twist of the mouth. He looked down at the page in front of him and scribbled something. If Granger were to consider him for a moment, Malfoy had been surprising her of late. He had been voting contrary to what she had presumed his beliefs were. Perhaps that Greengrass woman is better for him that I had assumed, she thought. Lady Malfoy, as she reminded herself.  
“The ayes have it,” she said with a soft smile.

  
A general cheer broke out, much to the displeasure of the former Death Eaters.

  
Minister Granger connected eyes with Clearwater, beamed at her, and clapped in her honor. A surge of pride went through her. It was quickly followed by relief. _We’ve done something good today,_ she thought to herself, _and we should be proud_.

At the break, after congratulating Penelope profusely, instead of mingling solely with Harry or catching up with Ronald about the children, Hermione surprised herself by walking up to Malfoy. She reached out her hand.

  
“Malfoy,” she said with a smile.

  
“Minister Granger,” he replied, holding her hand and bowing his head over it.

  
_Oh_ , she thought, with a malicious internal grin, _If my thirteen year old self could see me now_. And then she frowned. She had always been able to read Malfoy, even when they were at the height of their animosity in school. His face looked more ferrity than ever. His face was extremely pale and pinched. He had huge dark circles ringing his eyes. She had heard the rumors about his son, Scorpius, though she had never believed them. It had taken her one meeting with Scorpius to know that he was entirely Malfoy’s son. Scorpius looked almost exactly like his father, except for his mouth. He had inherited the curved lips of a woman. She remembered thinking it was an unfortunate feature for an eleven year old boy and she felt a pang go through her when she thought, _I hope he doesn’t get teased too harshly for it_. Maybe when he was eighteen he would understand the benefits of this feature. But no adolescent boy wants to be singled out for anything.

  
Six months after seeing Scorpius with his mother and father at Platform 9 ¾, she and Harry were chatting in her office after having finished an official debriefing. “Oh,” Harry had said, with a laugh, smoothing back a long forelock that had fallen from his bun. “Albus wrote to us the other day. It seems he has made a close friend in that Malfoy kid.” Hermione, who was rarely surprised, lifted her brows slightly at this. “Did he,” she said in a bemused voice. “Well, I hope it is a relief for them both.”

Harry absentmindedly scratched his beard. “What’re you getting at?”

  
She smiled back into his frown. “Harry, has it never occurred to you that Malfoy wanted more than anything to be your friend?”

  
“Of course,” he said, still frowning, “but I knew he was not someone I could trust.”

  
She looked off at her bookcase in the corner, as if she were remembering something.

  
“Sometimes I wonder,” she said, “what Malfoy would have been like if his father weren’t such a heinously bigoted and overbearing father.”

“Mm,” Harry was giving her a look.

  
She sighed. “As you probably know, father-son relationships are...challenging. As are mother-daughter relationships,” she said, thinking of her most recent clash with Rose over a particularly bright shade of Muggle eyeshadow. “I sometimes wonder...if we had given Malfoy a chance all those years ago...would he still have made the same decisions?”

  
Harry gave her a hard stare. “It doesn’t matter, Hermione.” His tone was flat and direct. “He made his choices and so did we. We can’t change the past.”

  
Now it was her turn to give him a humored look out of the corner of her eyes.

  
“Can’t we?” She replied with a smile.

  
He rolled his eyes, realizing the trap he had put himself in. “We can. But I don’t believe Malfoy deserves that chance.”

  
She laughed softly and picked up her quill. “He may surprise you yet, Harry.” There was a silence as Harry refused to look up at her, his brows contracted as he mulled over some internal thought. “Anyway, this is all to say that I am happy that Albus has a friend. We need as many of those as we can get.” Her eyes twinkled as she smiled at him.

  
Harry laughed. “Is your cold, English heart finally melting then?”

  
“Nev-ah,” she said in her swottiest accent.

  
“Well!” he exclaimed, pushing himself from the chair, “I must do some work. I’m told I have a whole department of people to oversee?”

  
She gave him a very serious look, “That you do, Auror Potter, that you do.”

  
He looked at her with a fond, far off look. “Who would’ve thought it, huh?”

  
She half-smiled at him again. “Now whose cold, English heart is melting?”

  
He laughed and rapped the doorway with his knuckles.

  
“Until next time, Minister.” He winked at her and then was gone. She smiled and shook her head to herself, still charmed by her oldest friend.

 

Now, standing in front of Malfoy, her own words came back to her as she looked at him.

  
“Are you quite well, Draco?” She asked, the briefest hint of gentleness edging into her voice.

  
He flinched a little at this and looked at her with a a fleeting look of guilt. “Quite,” he said sternly.

  
She did not believe him in the slightest but shot him her most comforting smile. “I’ve heard from Harry that your son and his are getting along famously in their time together at Hogwarts.”

  
Draco’s shoulders relaxed their tension a little. “It seems to be that way, yes.” His brow furrowed and his lips tensed into a straight line. “I was rather shocked that a Potter child would deign to be sorted into Slytherin. What a blow for the heir of Gryffindor.”

  
She knew he was trying to get a rise out of her. She laughed and looked away but she still kept her back straight. He always had a gift at making her feel spectacularly awkward for no reason. She could begin to feel her childhood self rise up in her shouting: _This is the one who said the worst things about you! How dare you stand here and chatter with him?!_ But she was no longer a child. Besides, she had long ago learned the value of becoming friends with her old enemies.

  
“I have long thought that Slytherin and Gryffindor were cut of the same cloth,” she said, looking back at him with a warm smile she did not entirely feel. “After all, loyalty is foremost to our nature. It is the thing we would sacrifice the most for – loyalty to our friends, to our families…” She looked at him from the corners of her eyes. “I’m sure we would both do anything for our respective children.” Another flinch went through his body and he looked suddenly at the floor. She smiled more warmly at him. “The only difference is that it manifests differently for each of us.”

  
He looked back into her face. For a split second, the ghost of a smile went across his face before it was lost in pain. “Astoria used to say that, too.” His voice was suddenly rougher and he cleared it with a cough.

  
“Ah,” she said out loud, remembering with a sudden flash. Her aide had told her that at a certain point. She could remember that her head had been bent over the many bills that needed her signature when Cordelia had slid a card in front of her face saying, “ _Lady Astoria Malfoy died due to complications regarding a blood curse. Could you please sign this condolence card, Minister?_ ” She hadn’t given it a second thought – though neither had she made it particularly personable. “ _Many condolences for your loss_ ,” it had been signed, in Cordelia’s hand. “Did she?” Hermione finished quickly, hoping Draco had not recognized that Hermione had forgotten.

  
His eyes slid up to hers and his eyebrow quirked. He had not missed it then. _Merlin’s beard_ , she thought, feeling slightly ashamed but not letting it show on her face.  
He nodded and looked down quickly at his feet. “She was a remarkable woman,” he said quietly. “I would be a completely different person if not for her. A much worse one, too, I’d reckon.” His head tilted up, revealing that his mouth was quirked up in a regretful half-smile. “I’d still be the most selfish person you’d ever met.”

  
With that she let out a real laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy. Cormic McLaggen still has miles on you in that respect.”

  
He laughed drily and gave her a rare smile. “I’m sure you are correct once again, Minister.” In a sudden shift, his voice went back to being smooth and distant. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of the Minister’s speaking with me today?”

  
It was her turn to cock an eyebrow and laugh drily. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ronald giving her a dark look. She didn’t bother to acknowledge him. “The Minister merely wishes to extend her thanks to Lord Malfoy for assisting the passing of this monumental and historical vote today.” Well, if he was going to be so pompous to make everything they said be stilted and formal then she would best him at his game. For better or for worse, she was still the young witch who couldn’t resist a challenge. She extended her hand and he took it. She gave him a warm yet firm handshake. “Please do inform your charming son that, if he were to ever wish to visit his friend during the winter holidays, my husband and I hold an annual Christmas party to which the entire Potter clan is invited. You both would be warmly welcomed should you choose to join in the festivities.” Again, she gave him a politely warm smile as he gave her a stunned look in return. “Good day to you, Lord Malfoy.”

  
“Good day, Minister Granger,” he mumbled.

  
When she went over to Ronald, he gave her the politest peck on the cheek and, when she slid next to him, he whispered, “Merlin’s beard. What the devil was that all about then?”

  
She cut her eyes at him and mock sighed. “Oh, Roonil Wazlib. You would not even begin to understand."

  
He looked slightly hurt but she did not care. She had managed and trodden on and tipped toed around his feelings for thirty years. In the spot where she knew she should care for how he felt – that endless tendril that reached out from her to him had long since died. She just could not care enough any more. Still, she could not help but feel a small thrill of fear, though, when Ron’s hand came up to her shoulder and squeezed her a little too hard through the fabric as they both laughed at a joke Harry had made. She felt a heavy lump of foreboding in the bottom of her stomach, though she laughed it off. As she did, her smile felt too tight and a wave of nausea coursed through her. She could not make herself look up at her husband. 


	2. Runes and Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione comes home after a long day as a minister and her motivations are questioned.

What was kept from the general wizarding population was that, if one were to twist and wind beneath the tunnels of the Ministry, one would pass down a hallway of seemingly nondescript subway tiles that lead to a dead end. If one were not an astute observer, one might then become frustrated and turn back hastily. There was also a particularly strong Confundus charm that shielded this spot like a wall (if one did not have the proper clearance to pass under it without harm) and one would walk away not remembering why one had gone down that hall, how far, or even if they had seen that particular tunnel. This was where the Minister of Magic had lived since the tunnels had been extended in 1890. (Before that, the Minister had been able to live at home. As grateful as she was for the lodging, Hermione rather longed for her own home.) 

However,  if one were able to avoid the Confundus charm and was particularly keen of sight, then one might spot a peculiar carving in one of these blackish green subway tiles. And, if one had spent a good deal of time, as Hermione Granger had, in the study of Ancient Runes, one might be able to discern that what looked like a haphazardous scratching in the wall was actually one of the most powerful ancient runes known in the wizarding world. It was one of the ones that Merlin himself uttered when he created the Round Table. When he did, the legend says, the rune scorched itself into the center of that obsidian stone with a beautiful blue flame. 

Granger’s escort team led her to the tile and stopped, guarding her as she ran a forefinger over it. It soothed her, to touch the rune. Some days she thought about how many other ministers had done the same – in times of peace or in times of crisis. It was very old magic. Often when she touched it, she wished she could speak to Dumbledore about it. Dumbledore. That endless and unlocked mystery. She often regretted not having more time with him; or admonished herself mentally for not knowing what questions to ask when she’d had the time. 

It had come up once, in her counselling session with Ronald. The psychologist from St. Mungo’s had asked her why she had felt that way; why she felt the need to always have the right question or the right answer – or, as she said, why Hermione needed to be absolutely in control. 

“It isn’t control,” she can remember herself saying slowly, trying hard not to be irritated, “it–it always comes out of a place of fear. If I’m not good enough, if I’m not smart enough, if I don’t know enough about the way this absolutely mad wizarding world works – how could anyone ever accept me?” 

What she didn’t say but what she thought was,  _ how could anyone ever love me_. The thought alone made her choke up. Quickly, she swallowed the feeling. “I need to be able to...maybe not control, but to avoid any situation where people would ever think less of me. I want to be seen as who I am. For everything that I am and not the arbitrary circumstances of my birth.” 

Her therapist put on her most soothing voice. “But you were a child. How could you have known what to ask when or why?”

She closed her eyes.  _ Because I’m Hermione Granger. I’m the most brilliant witch of my age. I should have known.  _ And then she burst into tears. 

She was technically flattered whenever Harry called her the most brilliant witch of her age. She’d heard it so often, both from him and from so many other people. Even Rita Skeeter once shoved her magical writing quill under Hermione’s nose and said to her, with a sneer, “So, the greatest wizard the our world has possibly ever seen, Mr. Harry James Potter himself, has called you, and I quote, ‘The brightest witch of her age’ – and just how would you define your alleged brilliance?” 

The question was so deeply unfair. What was Hermione supposed to do? Whip out her NEWTS and OWLS? Wasn’t her hard work enough?

Wasn’t it enough that she had just won the election to become Minister? Or, that she had passed a good deal of bills in the past ten years that would make quite a lot of magical beings' lives better? Or, that she was the one who outsmarted everything that Dumbledore, Voldemort, or the world could have thrown at her? That she survived being tortured by the notorious Bellatrix Lestrange – the same Bellatrix Lestrange who had sent the Longbottoms into an endless cycle of empty-eyed despair and madness? Wasn’t it enough – 

And she suddenly felt a tightness in her chest and throat like she was going to have a panic attack. 

She was grateful to Harry, of course. How brilliant was it that The Boy Who Lived thought that she, too, was brilliant. But she didn’t feel brilliant. She felt like screaming,  _ I’m just Hermione!  _ Or, _ Damn you all who thought that a Muggle born couldn’t be as good or even so much better than any of you!  _ Or, some days,  _ Bugger you all that you couldn’t have been better. _

Her thumb traced the contours of the rune. _I’m just Hermione Granger. The little girl on the train who opened up the carriage doors looking for some friends – any friends – is still deep inside of me. The girl who was teased for her hair, her teeth, her brains. She’s still in me. No matter what I do, she’ll always be there_. She hadn’t realized, but she had been mindlessly chewing her bottom lip. _The girl who just wanted to be liked – especially by Harry Potter, and more especially by his funny best friend whom everyone liked instantly and that Harry would have died for – she would’ve given up anything to be part of their world_. And she had. Unconsciously, she bit down hard. The pain she had caused herself surprised her. “Ah,” she said sharply, out loud. 

“Marm?” Said Godfrey, one of her security details. 

_ Ah bugger_. How long had she been standing there, thumb dumbly tracing over the rune? They must think she’s a bloody nutter. _ Finally lost it. The stress is too much for a woman like her_, they must be thinking. She gave him a look and then a curt nod. “Thank you all for your service,” she said loudly, “I will not be needing you for the rest of the night.” 

She heard a number of polite “marms” behind her before hearing the cracks of multiple Disapparations. 

With a hand over the rune, she whispered “Crookshanks,” into the tile and it flew backwards.

This was one of the most magnificent pieces of magic she could witness. Like a dance, the tiles whipped and whirled away from one another. They spun, they sashayed away from her touch, like butterflies flying endlessly backwards. She could never stop marvelling at the beauty that magic afforded her to see every day. As she felt almost every day, she felt grateful, again, that of all those witches and wizards who might have been, she was.

Though the widening gap, she could see Ronald bent over the stove. She genuinely liked their accommodations – mostly for the memories she had of being there with her friends. The green and black tile turned into white subway tile as the kitchen opened up. There was a fireplace in the corner from which Harry and Ginny most frequently popped when she and Ronald had pizza parties (it had been a ritual when the children were younger). She had seen Harry and Ginny laugh and hold hands a million times in those seats, right over there, the ones in the little nook where they’d put the brightest lights and their best silverware out just for them. She could almost hear Albus’ six-year-old chortle as Rose tickled him in his softest spot under the armpits.

_ But those rituals were gone, weren’t they? _ She felt a hard pang in her chest. How many times had she seen Ronald laughing as he stirred something in a pan and bantered with Rose and Hugo, almost making their sides split open while recounting the most mundane incident of the day. That was one of the things she had always loved about Ronald. He could turn the most mundane event into a side-splittingly funny incident worth remembering. But Hugo was still at Hogwarts and Rose was off in France on a year's fellowship at Beauxbaton's teaching introductory Charms. And it was her children that she wanted to see. She remembered slightly sadly that it was December 1st. It would be another few weeks until they were home again. 

If she could admit it to herself without feeling a deeper resonance of pain, she felt nothing for Ronald. No excitement when he entered a room. No passion or joy. Instead, when she was with him, she could feel herself becoming older. 

_ Thirty years_. She often thought to herself. _ How could anything last that long_. 

“Hiya,” she shouted to Ronald, as the tiles floated back into their rightful place behind her.

“Hello yourself,” he said, with the barest hint of a smile.

_ Oh, _she thought, _ This must be about Malfoy_. But she didn’t want to speak about it just yet. If she had to admit it to herself, she had long since grown sick of Ronald’s petty jealousies. Besides, today had been a good day. Even though her day had been booked from one end to the other since seven that morning, she had been riding through the day on the high of having the werewolf bill passed. But now, the adrenaline was beginning to leave her and she was exhausted and starving. 

There were moments when she could feel the love she used to feel. Sometimes it was just numb or inaccessible. Like it was hiding just on the other side of a large ice sheet. Now, seeing him in his white cooking apron that had a multitude of snitches that was embroidered with the phrase “I’m a catch,” and catching a whiff of his familiar smell, she could feel it blossoming in her chest once more. And it warmed her. 

“What’s on the menu, love?” She asked, hugging him from behind. 

“Oof,” he said, laughing as she squeezed him tight. “Well, hello!” 

“Mm,” she said, her eyes half closed. “Hello yourself.”

He chuckled again and stroked a thumb down her cheek. “Well, with a greeting like that, maybe I should cook more often.” His eyes sparkled as the crow’s feet curled around his smile. 

She laughed sardonically. They both knew that, due to her schedule, he was the one who cooked every night. He rarely complained about it. Once she had the opportunity to become the Minister of Magic, they had had many long conversations about what exactly that would mean. 

Luckily, without her saying a thing, Ron had been the first to offer quitting as an Auror in order to stay with the kids. It was an enormous sacrifice that she constantly felt guilty about. He had always thrived being in the company of his peers.  _ Who was she to take him away from that _, she had thought. 

It was also the same sentiment that Molly Weasley had once shouted at her. 

  
  
  


It had taken a considerable amount of work on Ginny’s part over the course of six months to have Molly even speak to Hermione again. When Molly had spoken, it was to ask if Hermione could please pass the salt. In the moment (though not when she thought about it later), Hermione had been so grateful to have been wordlessly forgiven that she did so without a second thought. Later, she had a very serious conversation about Molly’s expectations for her son. “I know you have ambition, love, and Merlin knows that I consider you to be a second daughter, so I want what’s best for you...but Minister of Magic! Do you really think that you could do such an enormous job? It’s not something to be considered lightly!” Hermione could barely keep herself from seething. “Molly, I love you like my own mother, but you must believe that I understand the enormity of the task ahead of me. I would not go into such an undertaking without clear eyes. Ronald and I have discussed it many times. He supports me. I would appreciate the courtesy if you could do as well.” Hermione had tried not to sound harsh but Molly teared up anyway. 

It had turned into a whole dramatic spectacle that she had to step away from and allow Ronald to handle himself. Even now, five years into her time as Minister, Molly was still constantly questioning her. “What about the children,” she had overheard Molly hiss to Ronald one rare evening when they were at The Burrow. Ronald’s voice was tired. “Mum, look at them yourself. Rose and Hugo could not be in better spirits.” From where she was standing, she could just see the glimpse of Ronald’s back as he leaned against the counter with his arms folded in front of him. “Besides, ‘Mione and I think it’s terrific for Rose and Hugo to know that their mother is capable of anything.” Before Molly could interject, Ronald had said, “Look, Mum, we want Rose to know that she can do anything she puts her mind to. Her mum is an incredible woman who has made every opportunity for herself. Why shouldn’t Rose and Hugo feel like they could to do the same?”

It had been a rare moment. Hermione had clutched her mug in her hands and flushed with pride. Him coming to her defense and saying such kind things about her had sustained and renewed her love Ronald for a long time afterwards. Especially because, after that, Molly only asked Hermione about her job: whether she found it fulfilling and if she had time to bring the children along. Hermione was so grateful to him that she had almost considered having another child with Ronald. But, by that time, she was well past forty and they had only planned on having two. 

 

The memory came back to her now, and she could feel the rest of her doubts slip away. With Hermione still attached to him, Ronald had reached over to the counter, poured her a glass of red wine, and handed it back to her. He was still smiling down at her. 

She angled her mouth up to him and gave him a long kiss. The act that she was hoping would ease her tensions instead made her more nervous than before. After being married for twenty years, she knew how Ronald Weasley tasted at every moment of his day. From his morning breath to his garlic breath, she knew every possible kiss she could get from him. An uncomfortable chill went through her. He tasted like gin. The taste was very strong.

When she pulled away, she could see it empty on the granite counter, just behind his elbow. She looked at it numbly. Harry and Ginny brought it over just two days ago.  

He caught her looking, so she was careful to keep her expression neutral. “So how was the rest of your day, then?” He asked, a little brusquely.

“It was good,” she said cheerfully. They looked at each other in silence. 

“Right, I get it. State secrets and all. I haven’t got the proper clearance, I see.”

She didn’t meet his eyes. He could get nasty when he’d had a bit to drink and she was too tired to fight him tonight. 

She generally didn’t tell Ron what she was up to in the Ministry not because he didn’t have the clearance but because she knew he wouldn’t understand. And if he didn’t understand, then he would be bored. And if he was bored, he would be petulant and he would lash out at her. So, it was better not to talk about work. If she wanted to discuss the future bills she was planning, she would do so with others. Like Harry. 

She took a deep breath in and went stock still. “Do you smell something?” 

He grunted and rolled his eyes. “Yes, you avoiding a question.” 

“No, Ronald, I mean, could something be burning?”

His eyes went wide and he raced towards the oven. He shoved on over mitts and extracted a very burnt lasagne. He didn’t look up at her but she could tell that his face had gone red to the roots of his hair. She put her drink down with a clang and rushed to find a pad for him to put it on.

“You know,” he said, still holding the hot lasagne in his hands, “I’m not so very stupid that I can’t comprehend what it is that you do.” 

Hermione went totally still again. She forced herself to speak very calmly. “That’s not it, Ronald. It’s just terribly dull. A meeting about how to bolster the economy, another about building specific Floo networks from England to France, meeting privately with staff in order to find a way to progress the bill that Clearwater proposed today, nothing of consequence.”  

He dropped the hot food heavily on the stove. She tried not to flinch at the noise. He looked straight into her face. “Was Malfoy at that meeting?” He said, with some spite behind his words. 

She was confused, so she looked up into his face. “Which one?”

His face twisted. “For such a clever witch you should be able to keep up with someone as stupid as me.” His arms folded and he stared her down. 

She knew what he wanted her to say.  _ What are you talking about, love, you’re just as clever. I’m so lucky to be with someone as brilliant and kind and caring as you. _ Even if she didn’t mean it. But she had before and it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. 

“Ronald,” she said with a smile, putting her shaking hands flat on the granite counter, “I’m just asking for a little clarification,” she laughed weakly. 

“Was he there?” His face was cold. 

Her eyes darted in confusion. “No, I don’t recollect him being at any of the meetings, in fact.” Her body tensed when his frown only went deeper on his face. 

“I don’t like you talking to him, ‘Mione. He’s a bully. Always has been, always will be.”

“That may be so, but I have a job to do. Whether I like it or not, interacting with Draco Malfoy is part of my job.” 

“Then don’t,” He said, with a hard look, as he passed his hand through his hair. 

“What?” She asked. 

“Don’t interact with him. For my sake.”

“Ronald –” 

“DO NOT SPEAK WITH THAT BLOODY MAN,” he roared at her. 

She could feel the tears prick her eyes at the shock of having been shouted at but she was obtusely proud that she hadn’t flinched. He sighed and his voice got quieter. “Isn’t it enough that I am asking you?” He was still staring at her, as if daring her to cry. “I love you, ‘Mione,” he said slowly, “and I’m asking you not to speak to him again.”

It was her turn to take a breath. “Ronald,” she said carefully, “it is my job to interact with every member–”

“Merlin,” he interjected, slamming his hand on the counter, “Here we go.”

“As Minister,” she said louder, hoping to drown him out, “I have a duty to give my ear to everyone no matter –” 

“You have a duty to me! You have a duty to our family!” He shouted back at her. 

“Yes, I know, but I have an obligation to my people too.” 

“Oh your people,” he said, spun around, shaking his head, and coming back at her with a wagging finger, “yes, your people. It you loved me a tenth of how much you love ‘your people’ then maybe you’d ACTUALLY LISTEN TO ME.” He ended with another roar. 

She stood stock still and breathed deeply until her heart rate had returned to usual pace. If he realized he had crossed a line, he didn’t acknowledge it. His eyes were wide and his mouth had an ugly twist to it. He knew he was hurting her. How could he not. He knew her as intimately as she knew him. 

She knew she had two options: grovel and tell him what he needed to hear, or leave. 

As she shifted her weight to her other foot, she was conscious of her wand in its holder. “Ronald,” she said, slowly, “I think it might be best if I spent the night elsewhere. I have a lot of work to do –” She began to walk toward the hallway entrance.

“For Merlin’s sake, ‘Mione, don’t you dare abandon me –”

“I’m not abandoning anyone, I simply have –”

“Work, yes, you said. But I made this for you. It might be burnt but we can pick the scorched bits off –” 

“I really don’t want to be around you if all we’re going to do is bicker –” 

He scoffed. “Bicker? ‘Mione you love to bicker. It’s your favorite bloody thing in this world. You love it more than you’ve ever loved me.”

And now she lost her temper. She spun around to face him. “No, I love to argue, Ronald. There’s a bloody big difference.”

It was his turn to be cold. “You’re mad if there is.” There was a long pause in which Hermione weighed the pros and cons of shouting at him for calling her mad. 

“I’m leaving.” she said, finally. “I’ll have one of my aides come in the morning for a change of clothes.” She felt an immense exhaustion in her body. She was so sick of fighting. She was bone weary of this game. The open threats. The recriminations. The petty jealousies. And her never doing a damn thing right. 

He drew his wand and pointed it at her. “No, you’re not. You’re going to sit and eat this dinner with me.” He spat out it out through gritted teeth. 

She could feel her wand on her leg as her heart kicked up its pace again. “What’re you going to do, Ronald – Imperius me? You know you could be thrown in Azkaban for launching an Unforgivable at the Minister.”

His grip tightened and his voice got deadly soft. “Are you threatening me?”

“No, never.” Her shoulders sagged. She let a few more tense seconds pass. If he were going to hex me, he would have done it by now. She passed a hand through her hair. She repeated herself, in a calm and steady tone. “My aide will come by tomorrow. Let’s say around nine in the morning. I hope for both our sakes that you show some sense and let her come in unimpeded.” 

A bright red bolt shot from his wand and it narrowly missed her head. It hit the wall behind her, showering fragments of subway tile in the back of her hair. This time, she couldn’t help but flinch. 

Her head jerked up and she looked directly into his. His smile was pain-filled but had a hint of maliciousness.  _ He wasn’t sorry he missed _. The thought shook her. She took a shaky breath and turned her heel. 

As she walked down the corridor, she could hear something smashing against the subway tile. Something heavy but empty, like a glass bottle. But she didn’t turn around. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think of this! It's a big of a departure from my usual work and I'd love to have the feedback. As I said up top, this is not a fic for people who ship Ron and Hermione.


	3. Takeaways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets a takeaway, reads an interesting book, and makes a plan.

When she was in the hallway, she took a shaky breath. Her throat was tight and the tears were threatening to fall. But now was not the time for that. She pulled out a galleon. It was extremely similar to the ones that she had made for Dumbledore’s Army. This one, she knew, was the twin of the one she had given to Cordelia, her aide. Wordlessly and wandlessly, she sent a message. _Working late tonight; mind grabbing me a chicken tikka?_

The response came in seconds. _You got it, chief!_

Hermione smiled to herself. _You are marvellous, Cordelia. Thank you!_

She hated to contact Cordelia on her off hours, but she couldn’t very well go out herself. She’d sent her security detail home and there was no way that she was going to call them all back just so she could get a takeaway. Her spine stiffened just at the thought of it. It would be a gross abuse of her power, she decided. Besides, a takeaway wasn’t exactly the reason why a security team for the Minister had been put into action in the first place. After Voldemort broke into the Ministry, they had to completely rethink their security. For some reason, the Wizengamot hadn’t thought it wise for the Minister of Magic to have a security detail before. Or, possibly, it simply hadn’t occurred to them. The week she had been made Minister, Harry had darkened her doorway to make an impassioned speech as to why it was necessary. She had been slightly embarrassed when he had broached the topic. She had even tried to interrupt him but he gave her his sternest look when she did. She’d often witnessed him give the same look to Albus. It was a little intimidating, although it was mostly hilarious to be on the receiving end of it. But now was not the time to laugh at her oldest friend.

“Hermione, please do not fight me on this. You and I both know that you are more than capable of defending yourself but we also both know just how easily it is to break into the Ministry without anyone noticing.”

She’d exhaled and passed a hand through her hair. She could not fight that logic. If a group of teenagers could break into the Ministry on only a few hours of planning, imagine what could have happened if people actually wishing to do her harm could do (and she didn’t have to imagine, as she and Harry had also lived through that scenario). Besides, she had already made many pureblood families quite cross with her for the bills she had passed with former Minister Shacklebolt. She had big plans to continue that work. She could not afford to take her safety lightly.

“You are right, Harry,” she’d said. “If you could please train some of your best and have them ready within the week, I would much appreciate it.”

All business, Harry had nodded at her curtly. “Ma’am,” he’d said, and then strode out of her office to do exactly that.

 

 

Hermione’s shoes clicked as she walked through the mostly deserted Ministry. She was still shaken by what had happened earlier, but something about having been at the front lines of the last war had made her very good at hiding her emotions. Sometimes she imagined putting them into a very small box and burying it very deep under sand. Sometimes she was too good at it. As she walked, she passed by someone and they would nod to each other absently. The only ones who were here were those who were burning the midnight oil, dealing in trade with other countries, or who were Aurors. It was not unusual to see the Minister in the halls so late, so no one remarked upon it.

Before she went to her office, she swung by the Auror Department. This, too, was not unusual. There were times when she needed to ask Harry to go on very sensitive missions. She was not at all happy to send her best friend out on the most dangerous missions, but she could not trust anyone else. Besides, he (and Ginny) knew what was required of the position when he had started.

A young black witch bolted upright from her chair when Hermione passed, accidentally knocking over her pile of paperwork. She looked embarrassed but continued to stand bolt straight. Hermione was slightly embarrassed and bemused but decided to not let either emotion show. _She must be very green_ , she thought to herself. “At ease, Auror,” she said, the exhaustion creeping into her voice.

 _Poor girl. She looked like she was straight out of Hogwarts. Clearly very nervous. Possibly not sleeping enough._ Though Hermione had been trying hard to avoid speaking to anyone on this nighttime journey to her office and while she felt too exhausted to carry a real conversation, she now paused. Whomever this Auror was, she had a spark of deep intelligence in her brown eyes and Hermione suddenly wanted to know more about her.

“I’m not sure we’ve met,” she said, extending a hand and a warm, though tired, smile.

“Aur-Aurelia Shacklebolt, ma’am,” the girl stammered.

“Shacklebolt?” Hermione laughed. “And here I thought I knew everything about Kingsley. Are you…?”

“His niece, ma’m.”

“Oh, please don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel ever so old.” Aurelia blinked at her. Now that Hermione was really looking at her, she could see the family similarities. Aurelia had the same kind of intense, hawk-like gaze that Kingsley used to pierce Hermione with when she had been his Under Secretary. She almost shivered under the gaze.

 

She remembered one particular moment when that gaze had been trained as intensely on her. She had delivered a bill that would erode the pro-pureblood laws and felt her shaking in her boots in front of the whole Wizengamot. She and Kingsley had spent months side-by-side writing it during which time he had put her through her paces to make sure that the argument was air-tight. She had known then that he had been training her to become Minister and that this would be the test. So it was no mystery to her that she cared more about not disappointing then Minister Shacklebolt rather than those feelings of the purebloods in the room. Her stomach had been clenched in fear the whole time as the vote was cast. But after hand after hand raised in support of it, her head flicked up to the Minister’s box and her heart lifted as she saw Kingsley beaming down at her.

 

“Y-Yes, Minister.” She said, looking at her feet.

“You must be very brilliant,” Hermione said with a smile, “To have come straight from Hogwarts into this position.”

Aurelia’s head shot up. “How did you know?” She said, quickly. Hermione chucked, sliding her hands into her robes and nodding her head towards Aurelia’s degree. It was perched at an unscrupulous angle so that, Hermione assumed, Aurelia might look at it from time to time and be heartened. From the corner of her eye, she could see Aurelia’s spine stiffen as Hermione leaned in, looking closer at the degree. “Oh, no wonder.” She laughed. “That’s an impressive number of NEWTs,” she said. With a sudden pang, she realized that Aurelia and Rose were the same age. She certainly didn’t let that show on her face.

“It was nothing, ma’am.”

Hermione looked back at Aurelia, her smile vanishing. “No,” she said, with a friendly warmth in her tone. “It is really remarkable. One should never be ashamed for one’s achievements. Especially when the circumstances may have been against you. I’m afraid,” she continued, giving Aurelia a very serious look, “that things may be made difficult for you, as the niece of one of our history’s best Aurors and Ministers.” Aurelia’s eyes went a little wide at Hermione’s frankness. “But that does not mean that you do not deserve to be here.”

Aurelia clearly did not know what to say. “Than-thank you, Minister.”

Hermione placed a hand comfortingly on Aurelia’s shoulder and looked deeply into her eyes. “I very much hope that nothing happens. But should it occur, do know that my office door is always open to you, day or night.”

“I appreciate that, Minister,” her voice was rough but Hermione did her the courtesy of not noticing.

Then Hermione extended her hand. “It was a true pleasure to meet you, Auror Shacklebolt. Please do not stay too late.”

Aurelia beamed up at her and her grip was firm. “Is that an official order?” She said, with a warm twinkle in her eye. _Cheeky!_ Hermione surprised them both by laughing. Aurelia’s shoulders finally relaxed an inch. “Yes, if you like, it is,” and Hermione laughed again. “Do what needs to get done, otherwise I’ll hear no end of it from Potter. But remember, there is always tomorrow.” The two women smiled at one another. “Thank you, Minister. I will remember that.” Hermione winked at her and left Aurelia to finish her work.

 

Hermione charmed the lock easily and strode into Harry’s office. She knew why he had such secure locks on it. _But, really, they could be stronger_ , she thought to herself, grinning. There was a pile on his papers in the corner that she knew was meant for her. They had a meeting in the morning and why that wasn’t strictly why she had broken in, she decided that it would behoove her to look them over before tomorrow. Then she went to her purpose: the back of the second drawer on the left. The flask she had given him on his stag do was sitting there, like she knew it would. She  pocketed it, grabbed the papers, and recharmed the lock. She nodded seriously at two Aurors who gawped at her as she exited Harry’s office.

While it _had_ been a pleasure to speak with Aurelia, the events of the day and Hermione’s level of starvation meant that she was bordering on a foul mood. She tried not to take it out on poor Cordelia, who met her at the door of her office with a magically warmed takeaway. Cordelia was wearing a different outfit that she was trying to hide with her Ministry robes and some very red lipstick that she hadn’t been wearing earlier.

“Oh, bugger,” Hermione said, angry at herself, “Cordelia, I am so sorry –”

“That’s quite alright, chief,” Cordelia replied. The young woman was looking at Hermione with a worried expression that made Hermione angry. Luckily, Cordelia did not ask Hermione what was happening. It would have been too much. Hermione really did not know whether she would snap at her or cry her heart out.

“I won’t ask anything else for the night. I am terribly sorry to have dragged you away from what looks like a very nice evening.”

Cordelia sniffed. “Actually,” a tone of humor crept into her voice, “I appreciated having an excuse to leave suddenly.” She smiled at Hermione and Hermione chuckled darkly.

“Mm,” Hermione replied, not wishing to delve into her aide’s personal life. “Still, the evening should be yours to enjoy.” With a few waves of her wand, the door to her office clicked open. Cordelia turned to leave. “Oh, Cordelia?” The young woman hesitated. “I plan to be here all night, so please do not bother to come in before ten.” She looked like she would interject but Hermione plowed ahead. “I shall be fine on my own.”  

Cordelia studied Hermione’s face again. If she saw something in it, she obviously did not think it wise to say anything. “Thank you,” she said, inclining her head. “Have a good evening, ma’am.”

“You as well,” Hermione said. While closing the door, she remembered. “Oh, shit – Cordelia,” Hermione sighed and rubbed her temple. “I’m sorry. There is one thing. Can you see to it that I have a change of clothes in the morning? I told my husband that I would have someone one ‘round about 9 tomorrow morning to pick something up. I really don't mind what. It doesn’t have to be you,” she said quickly, “Just someone.”

Cordelia cocked an eyebrow. Thankfully, she didn’t comment but she said, “I shall see to it.”

“Thank you,” she said in the same tone of voice that she might have said _bless you_. Then Hermione gave her a warm and exhausted smile. Cordelia looked back at her with the same kind of warmth with which she might have looked at her mother. Then the two women bid one another a good night, and Hermione softly closed her office door.

  


On the other side of the door, Hermione sighed and slumped. _I really must tell everyone to get stuffed about that ‘ma’am’ business_ , Hermione thought crossly to herself and then tore open the takeaway bag. _What a bloody awful day_. She felt the tears impending but shook her head. Not tonight. Besides, there was truly nothing sadder than crying into a takeaway. So she made up her mind not to.

As she ate her dinner, she opened up the file that had been on Harry’s desk. When she’d gotten halfway down the page, she swore colorfully and reached for the flask. With a clean hand, she closed the file and shoved it away from her with a dark twist on her face. She didn’t want it to be true. Not this. She just couldn’t handle _this_ right now. She untwisted the cap brusquely. It fell, spinning, on her desk. She tilted her head back, took in a large mouthful, and swallowed.

Unfortunately, her mind shifted to focus on Ronald. _What the fuck am I going to do_.

 

She knew why Ronald behaved like he did. She had spent many long hours both on her own and in those bloody long counselling sessions parsing out why exactly Ronald felt the need to be so demeaning towards her. Personally, she blamed his family. Ronald was never the most adventurous (Charlie), the cleverest (Bill), the snottiest rule abider (Percy), the funniest (George and Fred), or the most athletic (Ginny) and instead of taking the time to figure out his merits for himself, he let himself be cowed by his own insecurities. For years, she had lived in hope that he could change. That he would understand that while he wasn’t what the rest of his family was, he was part of the Golden Trio. He had helped defeat Voldemort.

But, in that corner of her heart that she most often tried to ignore, she knew that he wasn’t. He was the one who let himself become overwhelmed by his shortcomings. He’d left. He’d left Harry and he’d left her.

 _Don’t you dare abandon me_ , his words came back to her in a flash. She rubbed her eyes wearily. “I never abandoned anyone,” she grumbled. And she knew. She had never forgiven him for that. And she never would.

She had spent years of their marriage blaming herself. It was her fault that things weren’t working out. It was her fault, right? Every time they got into their horrible rows, that’s what he shouted at her. It’s what Molly implied whenever Ronald spent a night at The Burrow. She could hear Molly’s voice saying, _It’s a wife’s place to –_ and Hermione slammed the flat of her hand against her desk.

The worst part had come right before she had taken up her mantle as Minister. When she, Ronald, and the children were round at Harry and Ginny’s, Ginny saw the way Hermione winced after Ronald said something particularly cutting to her. Ginny had found her later in the kitchen, downing yet another glass of wine. “Hermione –” she’d touched her shoulder and Hermione nearly leaped out of her skin. Ginny’s face was shocked and then perturbed.

"Hermione, are you quite alright?"

"Mm, yes, quite."

“You know," she started slowly, "For a long time, you've basically been the sister I never had.” Hermione, quite tipsy at this point, gaped a little at her sister-in-law. “And I grew up with Ron. I know how...difficult he can be.” Ginny’s light brown eyes searched Hermione’s. “You know, things were not so great between me and Harry a while ago.”

“What?” Hermione said, flinching, “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well,” Ginny replied, lightly, “you know, the war.”

“Ah,” Hermione was nervous about where exactly this was going.

“It doesn’t need to all be on you, you know,” Ginny said quietly. “I know, maybe as women and...as mothers, we try to hold everything together.” Hermione stared down at her glass as hot tears pricked her eyes. “But you don’t have to. We–” Ginny cleared her throat. “When we decided that we couldn’t do it ourselves, we saw someone from St. Mungo’s. A therapist, I believe it the Muggle word for it?” Ginny shot her a small smile. “If...if you would want, I would be happy to send you the name of the woman we saw. She’s very discreet.” She said, quickly.

There was a long pause of silence as Hermione had looked at Ginny in a daze. Then, suddenly, Hermione had thrown her arms around Ginny. They hugged tightly and Hermione couldn’t help but sob a little into Ginny’s shoulder. Ginny had put her own glass down on the counter and stroked Hermione’s hair. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared for her like this and it made her want to weep harder. She so deeply missed her own mother in that moment.

When they pulled away, Ginny grasped Hermione’s hands tightly and said quietly, “You’re going to be alright, Hermione.” Then she smiled kindly at her sister-in-law and said, “Now, then, let’s clean you up a little.” Hermione laughed wetly but she let Ginny brush away all traces of her sadness.

“Ginny, you really are the most incredible mother,” Hermione said, when she was back to feeling more like herself.

Ginny shot Hermione a mischievous grin and laughed. “Oh, believe me, I like to remind my children of that at least three times a day.”

“Only three?” Hermione joked weakly.

“Well, we can’t all be you, Hermione, and have our work speak for itself.” And although Ginny meant it kindly, Hermione had to turn her head away again to keep herself from crying again. It had been a long while since someone said something nice about her. Instead, she reached for Ginny’s hand and gave it a grateful squeeze.

It had taken Ronald some convincing to go to therapy, but eventually he relented. Hermione didn’t like to think about those sessions. The therapist was everything Ginny had said and more. Hermione respected her deeply and was endlessly grateful to her. She thought about her current situation with some shame. _What would she say about this?_ And she knew.

There had been one day that Hermione had seen the counsellor alone. At the end of the session, her doctor looked up at her with a kind of weariness behind her eyes. While things were getting somewhat better with Ronald, Hermione had her doubts.

“Hermione,” her therapist had said, taking her large round spectacles off with a sigh and rubbing her eyes. “What do you want from this?”

Hermione looked at her. _Has she really not been listening to me this whole time?_ She thought crossly.

“Change. I want him to change.”   

“And what if he doesn’t?”

Her reply shocked her. “He has to.” There was a silence. “He just has to.”

Her therapist looked at her with an unreadable face. “People don’t change, Hermione. Or – they can, but they have to want to change. From our conversations alone and with you both together, I am not sure that he wants to.”

Hermione looked blankly at the rug in front of her, her hands clenched tightly between her knees.

“I’ve seen this kind of behavior before,” her therapist said slowly, “and if I can be honest with you, I...worry for you. Often these kinds of people will never be able to say that they are wrong. They cannot take accountability for their actions because it would mean that they had to admit that they are wrong. And never once in our sessions has Ron ever been able to admit culpability.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say, so she stayed quiet. Her therapist pressed on. “And I’m worried because he seems to have a lot of violence in him. And I need you to think about how you might react to that. How you could protect yourself. And your children.” Silent tears slid from Hermione’s eyes and down her cheeks. “Because the only person you can control is yourself. And the only one you can save is yourself. And there may come a time when you have to make a difficult decision to save yourself and your children”

Hermione breathed in shakily. Somewhere, deep down, she knew her therapist was right. But she couldn’t admit it to herself yet.

“Are you really going to allow yourself to settle for someone who gives you so little respect?” Her therapist said to her, in her calmest yet most direct tone.

Hermione flinched and blinked rapidly. She had never seen it as settling. _But it was, wasn’t it?_

And for a time, she thought maybe they had worked past it. It might even have been the best time of their marriage. They had been kind and considerate to one another. They had had sex more, despite her always being on call as the Minister. He had even came to her defense now and then whenever their family or friend said something demeaning about Hermione. She had been hopeful that he had finally put his insecurities and jealousies behind. She thought that they would be able to enter into a better, happier stage of their marriage. But, now…

Now, it was worse than before she had started as Minister. Now she was scared.

_What had happened?_

_What now?_

 

When half the flask of firewhiskey was gone, she considered her bookshelf absently. She was tracing one finger around the mouth of the flask, and her head floated towards one shoulder as she cocked her head. Suddenly, she stood up and took a book off of the shelf. There was only one time that she had read this book and it had been in the dead of night at Hogwarts. She had first seen it when the gilt-and-leather spine gleamed under the light of her wand in the Restricted section. Underneath Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, she waved her wand silently to take off Madame Pince’s wards. It had fallen heavily in her hand then, as it did now. She’d had been a bugger of a time finding it out in the world. But she made a few inquiries to her rare magical book dealers. They had looked at her in shock (one had even paled, she remembered with a smile, as she flipped through some of the darker magical spells) but when she proved she had the money for it, one finally, and discreetly, complied.  

She walked with the book back to her desk and picked up the flask again. Quickly, she found the page that she had been looking for, and she traced a forefinger over its words.

And then Hermione did what she did best: she made a plan.

At around two in the morning, Hermione came to the conclusion that she could not sleep at her desk (she was already developing a nasty crick in her neck) nor could she go home. So, with a deep sigh, but not moving from her seated position, she turned around and performed an Extendables Charm. Instantly a wooden door popped up beside the photograph of her family. She couldn’t bear to look at the photo. Instead, she closed her eyes tightly, and with as much strength as she could muster, she made a private bedroom for herself.

It was not the most impressive piece of magic Hermione had ever performed. But there was a bed. She fell into it, fully clothed, and fell asleep almost instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what your thoughts are! 
> 
> Oh, also, this is a pretty big plug for therapy. It's a good thing for anyone looking for a sounding board or just a few tips and tricks for dealing with tough situations. :)


	4. Dreams and Sacrifices Long Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We follow Hermione through a typical day at the office and learn some surprising things.

As she dreamed, she saw her mother and father dancing in the middle of the living room of her old home. The light from the glowing tree, decked with all its silver tinsel, and the light from the crackling fire shone brightly on her parents’ faces.

She was curled up under a patchwork blanket she knew instinctively that her grandmother had sewn. She couldn’t have been more than six or seven. She was warm and sleepy. Through bleary eyes, she watched as her mother twirled around in her father’s arms, her body relaxing into his, her face glowing. As they swayed, a woman’s warm warble enraptured Hermione. With a small smile on her face, she blinked sleepily and swayed her own head to the time.

 _Living for you is easy living_ __  
_It's easy to live when you're in love_ __  
_And I'm so in love_  
_There is nothing in life but you_

David leaned and whispered something into his wife’s ear with a smile. She tilted her head back and her laugh rang out. David laughed at the pleasure of her laughter, and he wrapped his arm closer around her. Marian inclined her head close enough to David’s to press their noses together. Then, as if they both had the thought at the same time, their mouths joined in a soft and loving kiss – 

“Yuck,” shouted their daughter from her patchwork nest. She followed this statement up with noises that mimicked projectile vomiting, for this was the stage she was in.

They broke apart quickly. Maybe they had thought that she was asleep. Marian giggled and put her head into David’s shoulder briefly. “Shall we show her how it’s really done, Marian?” Her father grinned.

Marian lifted her eyebrows at her daughter in jest. Clearly she was saying, _what’s gotten into him, eh?_ Then her mother pulled a mock serious face. “Alright then,” she said, with the hint of a dare in her voice.

Right as the trumpet raced through its final notes, David twirled Marian in a low dip that she, laughingly, complied with. Though Hermione could not see through her father’s back, she did squeal (in mock horror – she truly did love that her parents were so in love) as it looked like they shared a deep, impassioned kiss. 

When they stood upright, both of her parents’ faces had flushed a deep red. 

Hermione squealed and squirmed under the blankets, suddenly feeling more awake.

David led Marian back to the sofa. Marian sat on one side, and David said, in a kindly way, “Bunch up, love,” to Hermione so that he could sit on the other side of her. Her parents then reached their over and around Hermione so that they were all snuggled in close. Her mother landed a kiss on her forehead. Hermione laughed and looked up.

After a moment, her father looked at her mother in mock-seriousness. “Doctor Granger,” he said, inclining his head at Marian.

“Doctor Granger,” She replied with an equally straight face.

Hermione laughed. It was a family joke that never failed to thrill her when they performed it.  

Now was her turn. “Is there a Doctor Granger in this practice?”

“Yes,” her parents said simultaneously.

“Well, whom might you be?” she imperiously asked her father.

“I am Doctor Granger,” he said, extending his hand. She took it with a look of disdain. It was how she imagined the upper class behaved daily. “How do you do, Doctor Grang-ah,” she said, maintaining her air of importance.   

“Pfft.” Her mother rolled her eyes, “No, no, that cannot be. For, you see, _I_ am Doctor Granger.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, continuing this exaggerated accent, “how do you do, Doctor Grange-ahh.”

“How do you do,” her mother said, returning her accent and overdoing it ever so slightly.

“Oh,” David gave a good show of being shocked. “You are Doctor Granger?”

 “Indeed I am Doctor Granger, Doctor Granger.”

And this little pretense continued until one of her parents, her father in this case, had made a show of telling their daughter, whom they pretended was an elderly upper class English woman, that she really must cut back her diet of eating peacocks and Turkish delight whenever she fancied and that he really must insist that she floss at least seventeen times a day. The other parent would contradict everything that the first parent had said, telling her to only eat peacocks and Turkish delight at least seventeen times a day and to never floss except while in the middle of a fox hunt. “Simulating for the gums, don’t you know,” her mother winked at her. By this time, Hermione and her father were both doubled over in peals of laughter.  

Her father had to wipe away a few tears with the flat of his hand. “Oh,” he said suddenly, “all this talk of Turkish delight reminds me,” then he got up suddenly.

Hermione looked at her mother in excitement. “Does this mean that Daddy has some candy?” (Her parents never indulged her with candy, as they were dentists and knew the corrosive horrors of sugar.) Her mother shrugged while looking straight up, then looked back at Hermione and motioned like she was zippering her mouth shut. Hermione squeaked and kicked her feet out.

Then her mother started tickling her.

Hermione screamed initially at having been attacked and then laughed even harder. 

Then her father came out with a box of chocolate. “Just this once,” he said, beaming, and Hermione gasped in excitement. “It is Christmas, after all.”

After having exactly two chocolates each, her father slid off the sofa again to put the box of chocolates back in its hiding place.

When her father was out of the room, Hermione had a thought. “Mummy,” she said, suddenly serious in that way that only very sleepy children could be. “Why did you fall in love with Daddy?”

Marian laughed softly and brushed back some of Hermione’s wild hair with the tips of her fingers. Hermione snuggled closer into her mother’s shoulder.

“Well,” Marian said slowly, “for a good deal of reasons.”

“Like what?” Hermione petulant when she was tired though she never would admit to feeling either.

Her mother chuckled again. “Well, like, your father has always given me room to be myself. He never wanted to keep me from my dream –”

“Having your own practice?”

“Yes, darling. You’ll understand when you’re older, but it’s not easy to be married to the person you also have a business with.” Marian became very serious. “Your father has been marvellous at both. But the truth is, that no matter what happens, he always has my best interests at heart. He has always been my best friend; and I’m his. As such, he never wanted to make me feel smaller.” She nuzzled her cheek against the top of Hermione’s head. “He’s my equal in every way and I am his.” She said softly. “And some day, I very much hope you find someone who is yours.” By this time, Hermione was finding it difficult to hold up her eyelids.

Her father strode back into the room. He chuckled softly. “Alright, kiddo! Off to bed with you!” He swooped down and caught her swaddled in the blanket. “No!” She’d screeched and kicked playfully. “Come on, love! Show me how you can brush those back molars, eh?” –

 

Hermione awoke wishing desperately that she could remain asleep.

Somewhere, she could hear a small tap. It was incessant in its strange pattern. She blinked a few more times and looked around at the room she was in. The memories of the day before came back to her in a flood. She slipped her head back under the duvet, a swirl of emotions going through her. She didn’t regret her actions but she was suddenly terrified of the consequences. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be around her children. She wanted them all to be happy again. _Is that still possible,_ she asked herself. _Maybe if I try harder. Maybe I can make him happier. It can’t be easy to be with me. The husband of the Minister. He’s constantly relegated to the shadows. It’s not easy, is it._ Her chest hurt. _Maybe this doesn’t have to be permanent. Maybe this is just for today. Maybe I’ll go home and he’ll apologize for being nasty and we can go back to being happy._ As she thought this, a difficult feeling pressed itself heavily into her chest. _We’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine._

From under the duvet, she could still hear the muffled tapping become more insistent, as if there were a particularly grumpy owl outside. She groaned and got up wearily. Though she had slept, it hadn’t been nearly long enough. She opened up the inner door of the bedroom. She paused in her stride. She turned quickly and hastily performed a Notice-Me-Not charm on the door. She wasn’t going to admit to it being here but neither was she going to undo the Extension charm – just in case. In the meantime, no one needed to know. Then she made a quick motion with her hand to open her office door.

Her second aide, Malcolm Maldrake, was standing on the other side of the door trying very hard to master the irritation and embarrassment that was evident on his face. “Apologies, Maldrake,” she said, her voice in its usual state of morning roughness.

“Ma’am,” he replied. “I went by the home and your husband had left these out for you.”

She glanced up at his face at the mention of Ronald. “Was he there?” There was an edge of hope in her voice. _Did he say to apologize? Did he say that he could change?_ _Did he –_

“No, ma’am.” Maldrake’s eyes shifted to intently focus on a patch of carpet. “He did leave a note.”

 A wave of relief passed through her. “May I have it, then?”

He pressed his lips together into a thin line and did not meet her gaze. She waited, letting the silence do its work. In her time at the Ministry, she had found that silence was an excellent motivator. She watched as his face went a certain shade of bright red but his expression remained dark. Finally, with a look of extreme discomfort, he took it out of his robe pocket. Maldrake had obviously stuffed it in his pocket. It hadn’t been folded so Hermione got the strong sense that Ronald had left it out with the intention of someone accidentally reading it.

“May I get some tea for you, ma’am?” Maldrake sounded eager to escape. 

Hermione’s eyes caught the first few words, _I hope you’re happy, you bitch. You made me do that. If you weren’t such a lying cunt –_ and her breath caught in her throat. Maldrake shifted his feet awkwardly. “Ma’am, may I – ?”

She looked up at him sharply but her eyes didn’t focus on him. She felt some old and familiar feelings rise up in her. “What? Yes – of course – tea.” Maldrake nodded and stepped around her so he could put the clothes onto the armchair in the corner.

“I’ll just get it then,” he mumbled as he shuffled out.

When she finished the note, she just stood there in her empty office, staring at the far wall. _It’s your fault that I’ve never done anything with my life. I could have been someone. Instead I’m just your bloody shadow._ Her limbs felt very heavy. She suddenly felt like the effort to do anything was entirely too much. _You bloody bitch how dare you lie to my face._ This wasn’t the first time she had gotten a note like this from him. She’d even gotten a rather vicious Howler or two in the past. When he thought she had been flirting with someone else (she never had), when he resented being the stay-at-home dad, or...really, sometimes, she really couldn’t fathom why. But when they had come, they had always been delivered in the privacy of her office.  

But he had meant for it to be read. And Maldrake clearly had.  

Still clutching the note in her hand, she blankly went over to the clothes to see what they were. As she picked it up, she numbly noted that her fingers were trembling. And then she focused on what was in front of her. It was a cream, sheer lace top that had delicate straps. It was something she had, once upon a time, gone to bed in. Frowning, she looked under it. And then anger laced through her.

Sitting innocuously under the sheer top was the bright red lace thong Ginny had given to Hermione on her hen night. It was sitting on top of the leather mini skirt that Hermione had long since stopped wearing. Innocently, she thought, _but it’s the dead of winter. How will I ever stay warm looking like a slag –_

And Hermione started shaking, her breath catching in her throat in fury. 

He meant to humiliate her.  

So, this was the game he was going to play. Resentment and blame and humiliation. For the first time in a long time, Hermione let herself get very angry. When sparks began to shoot off of her wand, she slammed it onto her desk and began to pace around her office, with hands on her hips, barely keeping herself from screaming. _This is what he thinks of me? I can be the bloody Minister of Magic and he thinks that he can knock me down a bloody peg with these infantile and stupid games? He thinks that he can send me threatening notes and embarrass me by having my aide deliver a bloody thong_ – which she had grabbed and was now striding over to her desk. She opened the bottom drawer sharply and flung it in. Then she kicked the drawer shut a little too forcefully and it bounced back open slightly but she kept moving – _and he thinks I’ll just – what – roll over?_

She was breathing and shaking like a racehorse. She was so angry she was almost snarling.  

But she wasn’t going to let that happen.

And it was right then that she decided. Whatever happened from this point on; she would fight.

Just at the thought of it, Hermione stood a little straighter. A kind of steely resolve settled over her. _Alright_ , she thought. _Then I know how to behave_.   

There was a tap at her door. Maldrake poked his head in, looking rather guilty. But he was bearing tea in one hand and a scone in the other. As he handed each at a time to Hermione, his eyes flicked over to the clothes armchair as if he were expecting something to be there. Hermione cocked her eyebrow and gave him a piercing look. “And what exactly are you looking for, Maldrake?” Her tone was cold.

“N–Nothing, ma’am.”

“Minister Granger,” she corrected lightly, taking a scalding sip of tea.

He looked at her in confusion.

“I am the Minister, Maldrake. Not some bloody woman at the shops.” She continued her steely stare and he visibly cowed under it. It was meaner than she needed it to be. As Minister, she was constantly terrified that any piece of her personal life would turn up in the _Prophet_. It was exactly what she didn’t need. And as Minister, she needed to know that her aides respected her enough not to leak.

“Yes, Minister.” He pursed his lips into a thin line again. Hermione gave him a wary look and then began to pace around her office.

“Now, Maldrake, take me through the day.”

“Yes, Minister,” and then he walked her through the schedule hour by hour. “First, your weekly chat with Doge –” Hermione nodded and put a hand thoughtfully under her chin. Delphinus Doge was the Head of the Department of Magical Cooperation. After reading Harry’s file last night, she would have more to ask to him this week than she had anticipated. “Then at ten, you have a meeting with all aides regarding the Ministry Holiday party. Head Auror Potter has called for a private meeting with you at eleven. Then lunch with the Undersecretary. From one to three, you have a gap –” Not a break, Hermione noted, as she would be catching up on her paperwork. “Clearwater has asked to speak with you from three to four regarding your request for land protection for centaurs. From four to five, you will be speaking with Weasley regarding improvements to the railways,” Hermione turned her back to Maldrake as she paced and made a face to herself. _Bugger_ , she thought. She disliked seeing Percy on any normal day. Though he was less of a ponce than he used to be, she was not particularly ready to face any member of the Weasley family after last night. “And then,” Maldrake continued, “you have been asked to attend the Magical Royal Opera House with the President of France.” Hermione groaned. She had forgotten. She rubbed her neck with her free hand. “As a reminder, Gabrielle Delacour will be performing in the role of Morgan Le Fay.”  

“Oh, right,” Hermione said brightly for a moment. “I recall asking Fleur Weasley to attend with me. Have we heard back from her?” 

“Indeed, ma – Minister.” He corrected with a cough. “She said she would be honored to and that she would meet you in the Atrium of the Ministry.” 

“Fabulous,” she said, smiling at her aide for a moment. “Thank you very much, Maldrake. How much time have I got before all hell breaks loose?”

He smirked and looked at his pocket watch. “About a half hour, Minister.”

“Right,” she nodded. “Well, better get to it, then.”

“Minister,” he said, nodding his head to her and walking towards the door.

“Oh, Maldrake,” she called. He stopped and turned to her with an empty expression. “I forgot to thank you for stopping ‘round the house this morning. I do appreciate it.” He nodded and turned again. “And, Maldrake,” He stopped again. “If we could keep it between ourselves, for now, I would be very grateful.” He stared at her for a moment, nodded, and then disappeared around the corner of the door.

 _I don’t remember dismissing you_ , she thought grumpily. Her stomach tightened.

Half an hour. Not enough time to run home, then, before her first meeting. She had completely forgotten about the opera. She would have to find a moment to stop at the house to find something suitable to wear. She supposed she also should drag Ronald with her since she would be in the public eye. She never wanted to give Rita Skeeter anything to gossip about. Rita, though she was easily in her seventies at this point, Hermione mused to herself, seemed to be living off of the gossip _in the way that a vampire feeds off of blood_ , Hermione thought caustically. But if she took Ronald, he may just cause the spectacle that Rita would salivate over.

 _Better not, then_ , she thought, _I would be happy enough to have time alone with Fleur._  

She looked at the pile of clothes in the armchair and then down at what she was wearing. She was still wearing yesterday’s outfit and while it was mussed and wrinkled, she thought that she would make do. After all, she had found that people did not notice the details, like wearing the same trousers two days in a row, if enough of the rest was different. Closing the door with a finger, she threw her blazer onto the hook behind the door and unbutton her silk blouse. She stuffed the blouse and the short leather skirt into the bottom drawer with the red thong. After she shut it, she frowned and put a subtle locking charm on it. One couldn’t be too careful.

As she pulled on the sheer top, Hermione reflected on her dream. She didn’t remember much of her early childhood. She had known that she had been happy, and sometimes happiness is unremarkable, so one does not bother to remember it. But, as she reached for the last of her tea, she realized that it must have been a memory that she had forgotten for a time. She thought to herself, _what else has slipped away without me noticing?_

She checked herself in her office mirror. The top was still too sheer for her taste, but she _accio_ -ed the long, dusty pink cashmere cardigan that she kept in her office for when she got cold from sitting for too long. It covered enough, Hermione decided. Then she waved her wand in front of her face. She didn’t like to take care of her hygiene in this way, but it would have to do for now. She sighed and _accio_ -ed the hairbrush and cosmetics she kept in the top drawer. She flicked her wand, and within moments, her hair was smoothed back and piled nicely on the top of her head. Her lips now wore a pale pink color that was not too far off from her cardigan. _Not too bad_ , _actually_ , she thought, _considering._

Then there was a polite tap on her office door. With another flick of her wand, all of her various knicknacks returned to their home. “Come in,” she said, as she slipped her hands into her pants pockets. She looked at her scone regretfully. She had forgotten to eat. Again.

Delphinus Doge was a balding, squat man who could enter a room and not be noticed. This, Hermione had often thought to herself, must have been a cultivated talent, as his clever blue eyes never missed a thing. He would have been a brilliant Auror if he hadn’t focused on International Law instead. As it stood, there was no one else Hermione would rather see as the Head of that department.

“Minister,” he said, briskly in his surprisingly deep voice.

She granted him a rare smile. Delphinus had long been one of her secretly favorite people.

“Please have a seat, Delphinus,” she said, gesturing to the leather one in front of her desk.

He sniffed the air. “Burning the midnight oil, Minister?” He looked at her knowingly. _Ah_ , she thought, _it must still smell like the tikka_.

“Indeed,” she replied, circling her wand above her with a flick of her wrist. The room promptly smelled like a meadow. “You know me. Now, then, let’s get to it, Doge.” She smiled at him over her reading glasses as she picked up the files she had read the day before.  

Through the next hour. Doge briefed her on what he wanted her to speak with the President of France about the next day. “We must know whether he would be willing to negotiate the terms of the tariffs on imported goods.”

“Mm,” Hermione replied noncommittally.

“Ma’am –”

She sighed, “Oh, do call me Granger or Minister if you must.” Doge blinked at her, surprised at having been cut off. “I’m getting ever so tired of everyone incessantly ‘marm’ing me. I’m afraid I shall be ‘marm’ed to death.” She sent him a twinkling smile. He laughed a little gruffly, still unhappy about not being able to speak his peace.

“ _Minister_ –”

“Thank you.”

 “I know that trade does not interest you as much as advocating for the rights of magical beings, but –”

 “Pardon?” Hermione said, her eyebrows contracting. “That is not the case at all Doge. I care deeply about trade and all of its nuances. Except –”

“Yes?” He asked, a little grumpily.

“Except,” Hermione pressed on, “I was rather hoping that chat would be about something rather more urgent. And while –” she held a hand up because she could see Doge’s mouth opening to interrupt, “I understand how deeply necessary our economic trade is with other countries, I have received rather alarming news that there have been attacks on Muggles both within our country and outside of it. I rather hoped, Doge, that you might inform me on how I might broach that topic with President of France – or at least to give me the means of navigating it should he bring it up.”

Doge shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Ma – Minister, there have only been four such attacks: three within our country and one outside of it. I did not deem it wise to inform you until –”

“Until what time? Until I was in front of the Other Minister and called upon to answer for these crimes?” She leaned back heavily in her chair. “Delphinus,” she started again, using her calmest and most rational voice, “four is not nothing. What do you know about this?”

There was a long moment of pause. She did not blink away from his eye contact. His eyes slid away first. He sighed heavily and removed his glasses to rub his eyes. “Not much, to be perfectly frank. I do know that Head Auror Potter has been the person to be most involved with the events within the UK.” He gave her a bleary look. She realized, with a little tender pang for her friend, she was not the only one burning the midnight oil. “What happened in Paris was much like what occurred here.” He shrugged. “Nothing has been too out of the ordinary. Someone – a wizard we know to be English – gave a cursed object to _une non-magique_ , and then…”

Hermione tented her fingers and placed her chin on top of them, waiting for him to continue. Doge let out a long sigh. His eyes flicked up to meet hers. They had lost some of their brilliance. “Well, it was the same as before.”

Just then, there was a polite knock on her open door. Cordelia poked her head in. “Apologies, Minister,” she nodded to Delphinus, “Head Barrister Doge.”

“Is it time?” Hermione asked. Cordelia nodded. Hermione rose to her feet and grabbed her notepad and quill. She hesitated for a moment and then grabbed the scone as well. “Walk with me, Doge,” she smiled. “I would love to hear more about those trade tariffs.” He smiled back at her and continued to tell her about how the international taxation on cheese, champagne, and lace should be lowered as the wove through the halls of the Ministry.

She and her staff convened in the Atrium of the Ministry. Hermione liked to keep her team tight. She had no more than three aides at a time, and these ones were all brilliant, in her opinion. But she had a particular place in her esteem for Cordelia.

Cordelia Cresswell had come to her on McGonagall’s recommendation. Hermione had known better than to ask too many questions before hiring her on the spot. It hadn’t been two months before Hermione knew that Cordelia would become one of the best Ministers Hermione could hope to train. As such, she walked a fine line of bringing Cordelia into as many conversations as she could without it seeming as if she were playing favorites. She had sometimes erred on the side of giving Cordelia too many projects because she knew that Cresswell could manage them all single-handedly. Now, she thought, looking at the bags under Cordelia’s eyes, maybe she should have given this particular task to another.

Cordelia had her raven black hair tied up in a high ponytail behind her. Holding her wand steadily in one hand so that her plans may be projected upon the walls for them to see and gesturing around the hall with the other, she began talking through the details of the ornamentation for the annual Ministry Holiday party. Planning this party had traditionally been given to the Minister of Magic’s partner. She had asked Ronald to do it once. After he had gotten so worked up over the stress of it that he not only shouted at herself but also two of her aides and a party planner, Hermione had decided to give it to someone else.

(She remembered that row darkly. He had told her that it was emasculating to do such a thing and if she truly loved him then she would not ask him to do it. She remembered thinking, _if you truly loved me then I would not have to ask_.)

There really was no one so capable at Cordelia, but Hermione after watching Cordelia’s demonstration, she also knew that Cordelia would wear herself to the bone if she did not have help. “Cresswell, this is quite spectacular,” Hermione had said when it was over. “But it seems like it will be quite an undertaking and you will be needing assistance on this. Maldrake,” she turned to him, “if you could, please assist Cresswell in this endeavor.”

Malcolm gaped at her. He had not realized that the Minister had given him an order and he moved to argue against her. “But, Minister, I have the presentation on renewing the tariffs between ourselves and Brazil –”

 _More tariffs._ Hermione rolled her eyes internally but did not let her irritation shine through. “I understand that. And Cresswell is rewriting the new ruling on care and disposal of cursed magical objects, and Twycross –” Here Evelyn Twycross looked at the Minister in surprise. She was almost too used to being overlooked. _Must change that,_ Hermione thought guiltily to herself.  “Twycross is in the midst of diving through every magical law book ever written concerning the rights of centaurs to own land while also working diligently to ensure safe Floo networks between the UK and her closest allies.” Malcolm was staring hard at the floor. “We are a team, Maldrake. A small one, it’s true. But we must work to help one another.” She stared at the top of his head expectantly.

He nodded but did not meet her gaze. “Understood, Minister.” 

 _Merlin_ , she thought, _Did Kings or Fudge ever have such trouble getting people to do things?_

Then Hermione turned to Cresswell and inquired about the particulars of the budget for the party. As she listened to Cordelia’s answer, she caught a glimpse of two blonde heads walking through the Atrium as they passed behind her security team.

Draco and Scorpius Malfoy had just emerged from one of the large chimneys. Draco had a hand on Scorpius’ shoulder and was talking to him intently with a soft look on his face. Hermione felt a thrill go through her that she didn’t quite understand. Scorpius looked almost like his father did when he was that age. Today, he looked pale and vaguely green, as if he were going to be sick.

Draco looked past Scorpius and for a brief moment their eyes met –

Hermione turned her head sharply to look back at her team. Maldrake and Cresswell were already arguing about whether the enchanted floating luminous globes were really necessary. Hermione caught Twycross looking at her with a raised eyebrow but Twycross quickly wiped the expression off of her face. As Maldrake and Cresswell continued to argue, Hermione began a conversation with Twycross regarding the upcoming meeting with Clearwater and what they both hoped to gain from the conversation.

“That’s a terrific idea, Twycross,” She said, nodding, and the other woman was almost floored by the rare compliment. “I was thinking: perhaps you should lead the meeting?”

“Oh,” that caught Evelyn off guard. “If you believe that is wise, Minister.”

“I do,” Hermione smiled at her. “You are more than capable of doing so. In fact, I should have suggested it from the beginning.” Twycross looked at her with wide eyes and for a brief moment, Hermione could have sworn that a look of guilt flickered across her face. Hermione gave her a piercing look. Then, from the corner of her eye, she could see Harry walking towards her.

“Well done, Cresswell,” she said, wrapping their meeting up. “I agree with all of the options except for the fairies in the lily pads. They tend to have a nasty bite when provoked and, unfortunately, I believe we all can think of at least one wizard who would provoke a fairy when on their fifth glass of champagne.” Whether she had meant to or not, Hermione had been thinking of Ronald. Now Twycross has pressed her lips in a fine line and looked away from the Minister suddenly. _Did I say something wrong?_ Then she pushed the thought out of her head. “That should help at least a little with the budget,” she nodded to Maldrake who looked a little happier now that Hermione had taken his side for once. _I really must do a better job of giving them equal treatment._ “Now, I do believe my eleven o’clock appointment is arriving. I shall see you all back at the office.” She smiled at them. “Thank you all!”

She felt her heart lighten at the sight of Harry. It was such a pleasure to be working so closely with her best friend. And while she could admit that she grew tired of sometimes being able to read him like a book, Harry had always treated her with respect. It didn’t matter how many ambitions Hermione had. It also didn’t matter that she was Minister. He had supported her unwaveringly. She thought back to what her mother had said to her in her dream: _He’s my equal in every way and I am his_ . She smiled at the green-black tile under her feet. _Ginny is extremely lucky_ . She frowned. _No,_ she corrected herself, it was pithy to put the onus on luck. _She went looking for what she needed and she found it in Harry. And he did the same with her._

Her aides passed by Harry and he gave them a quick nod and smile. Then he frowned and his head shot back to look at one of them. But then he straightened his back and continued walking. Hermione watched him frown at the ground. It was his usual compartmentalizing trick. _Why now?_ Her eyes followed her aides’ backs as they walked away, chatting amongst themselves. She looked at her friend warily.

But Harry was now speaking to the security team, telling them that Hermione would no longer need them until tonight. As they went through the usual drill of making sure he was not Imperiused nor was someone else under the Polyjuice Potion, she considered about how Harry had also risen to the challenge of being a better husband and a better father – to Al, in particular.

“Hiya,” he said to her, drawing something slightly out of his pocket. His silver flask gleamed in the light. His green eyes twinkled at her in mirth. “Do you really think you can waltz into my office like I wouldn’t notice?”

“It’s not my fault that the wards are so easy to break,” she retorted with a huffiness she didn’t feel. “As your Minister, I really must advise that you see to that.”

He laughed. “Why not just buy yourself one of these if you’re going to nick it from my office all the time?”

Now she really was put out. “I don’t nick it all the time,” she rolled her eyes. “Just now and then.”

“Then why do I always find it in your office?”

“That’s on you, mate. If you’re going to leave your flasks filled to the brim sitting around willy-nilly –”

“ ‘Willy-nilly’? It was in my _office_ , Hermione. You know, my well-warded office that’s in the middle of the tightest security the Ministry can offer –”

“Hang on a minute, I thought I had the tightest security the Ministry could offer –”

“Well, alright then, the second-tightest security the Ministry can offer. But it doesn’t help that you’re like a niffler for firewhiskey –”

“ ‘A niffler for firewhiskey?’ Oy, mate, speak for yourself. You are the one who _keeps it in his desk_ –”

“Which you frequently steal!”

“Not _frequently_ –”

And they continued to banter like this all the way back to her office. As they rounded the corner into it, she could see Harry’s eyes flick straight to the Notice-Me-Not. He frowned and gave her a look she pretended not to see. He knew her magic probably better than anyone. Instead of asking her about it, he went to her desk and picked up the files that she had also nicked from his office. 

“So that’s where those went.”

Hermione pretended to be surprised. “Oh, however did those get there,” she said blandly. She suspected that they both knew that he had left them out for her just so she could find them. They had played this game before. Harry gave her a look, which was followed by a grin, and then took a seat in the chair across the desk. 

Quickly, they settled into business. They both knew the stakes of the matter and it sobered them. Hermione had always felt more of a kinship with Harry, based upon the fact that he had also had a Muggle upbringing. For instance, she could casually mention her dream about her parents dancing to a vinyl record and he wouldn’t ask why Muggles had black wax plates that sang to them. But because of that, she also knew that when something happened to Muggles that was caused by their world, Harry felt it as keenly as she did.

Harry’s face turned very serious. “So, as you read in my report, the attacks started six months ago. At first we believed that they were just,” he sighed, “the usual. Wizards giving Muggles cursed objects, and all that. And then it appeared.”

He slid the photograph to her. It was exactly like the ones she had seen in textbooks growing up. There was a Dark Mark in the sky and a Muggle was floating, contorted, and screaming beneath.

She put on her reading glasses, considered it for a second, and then pushed it away from herself, forcefully.

“Harry,” she said very seriously, “what about your scar?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.” Her stare bored into him. “No, really, Hermione. Not a twinge.”

Her body relaxed and she rubbed her face. “Oh, thank god,” she said, slipping into a Muggle-ism. He nodded.

“So, are you thinking it’s his followers, again?”

He nodded again. “Now, this is the part you’re not going to like.” She slipped her thumb nail between her teeth nervously but did not bite hard enough to go through the nail. “It seems,” he started slowly, “that there has been a movement against this current administration. A kind of backlash mostly from purebloods.”

She hadn’t heard this before. She was shocked. “What?”

“Yes,” he said, gravely, “it would seem that there are those purebloods who do not like the trajectory of more rights for other magical beings and –” he said, pushing through as she scoffed, “fewer ones for them.”

“Fewer for them?” She didn’t feel her anger immediately but it began to rise in her. “I see; so evening the playing field for everyone else means fewer rights for them? And exactly how far has the inbreeding gone, then, that they could believe something so impossibly stupid?” She finished sharply.  

Harry let her have her anger and did not comment upon it. Instead, he quietly smiled at her as if he’d had the same thoughts. “I agree,” he said, simply. “Now, I’d like to propose something which you may find disagreeable.”

Then he got up and opened the door. Her heart gave a very unexpected lurch as she saw Draco Malfoy on the other side of it. His face had an expression she couldn’t read on it. _Was Ronald right?_ The thought flitted through her head. She quickly pushed it away. _Not the time, Hermione!_

Draco put his hand on the small of his son’s back and led him into Hermione’s office. Hermione stood and walked around her desk. As she did, several things happened. First, she saw that Fidelis Blackhorn was right behind Scorpius. She looked at Harry with an eyebrow raised. _This asshole?_ She thought. She swore she could see the corners of his mouth raise as if he could hear what she was thinking. Then, she cleared her mind and continued forward to see that Draco’s eyes were on the edge of her lace top. His eyes skimmed down the length of her body. Her stomach dropped. There was a very specific look in those blue eyes when they finally met her brown ones.

She extended a hand to Scorpius. “Hello, Scorpius,” she grasped his hand with her usual warm-but-firm grip (or her “I’m-lovely-but-don’t-fuck-with-me” handshake, as Rose liked to call it). Scorpius’ eyebrows shot up as if he had not expected her to know his name and he returned her grip. “Minister,” he mumbled, nodding over her hand.

“Blackhorn,” she said, turning to Fidelis and attempting a smile, “lovely to see you as always.”

“Likewise, Minister,” he replied in his usual, grating voice.

Hermione turned back to smile at Scorpius, half wondering why he was there. He had grown out of his adolescent awkwardness into a handsome young man. As she had predicted, he had grown into his mouth and she could see a certain kind of confidence that was not overblown in the way that he held himself. Now, considering him closer, she noticed briefly that while Draco’s eyes were a sky blue that bordered on grey, Scorpius’ were a shade darker – a steely blue, she decided.

To her surprise, Harry bounded up from his chair. “Draco,” he said warmly, taking the man’s hand. “Harry,” he replied, with a quiet intensity that equalled Harry’s and his smile reached his eyes. _Well knock me over with a feather_ , she thought. For a moment, both men paused the handshake and a slow grin broke out on each of their faces. Hermione could’ve sworn that they were in silent cahoots.

Then Harry turned to Scorpius and pulled him into an enormous hug. Scorpius was over his adolescent embarrassment of public affection but he still gave Hermione a look like _Dads, eh_ ? And then she realized that Harry must have been like another father to Scorpius once he came around on the idea of Albus being in Slytherin _and_ that Scorpius was his best friend. (Watching these two men, she suddenly couldn’t remember the last time Ronald had hugged Hugo that way.) Scorpius must’ve been ‘round every summer to Godric’s Hollow and, therefore, Harry must’ve spent a good deal of time with Draco without telling her. As she put the pieces together, Harry turned and gave her a wide grin.  

 _Cheeky_ , she thought and smiled at him. This made him grin wider. Hermione raised one eyebrow and gave him a considering look. She was no fool. _I see_ , she thought, humorously. Then she looked at Draco, who was giving her his best innocent face. And then, stealthily, she guarded her mind.

Fidelis coughed irascibly from the doorway. He was clearly put out by this decidedly un-English display of affection.

“I see we are needing more chairs,” Hermione said, suddenly, as if that was what the cough had been about. She made a long gesture with her wand. Two extra armchairs plopped themselves onto the carpet. One behind Draco, and one behind Scorpius. “I would sit,” Hermione suggested, walking back to her own chair, “as I have found that they tend to get quite pushy if you don’t.” Scorpius looked at her in shock at her clearly advanced use of wordless magic (she smiled to herself. _He doesn’t know the half of it_ .) while Draco gave her a look that bordered on proud. Harry looked at her from the corners of his eyes. _Show off,_ his voice popped up in her mind. She cut her eyes at him. Fidelis, on the other hand, was oblivious to all of this as he seemed to be upset that the Minister had not conjured a comfortable chair for him as well and instead he must walk to it. He stalked over to the armchair in the corner and plunked himself down in a bit of a huff.

“So, gentlemen,” she said with a smile, regaining her seat behind her desk, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

Harry raised a finger. “I should start.” He turned to face the other men in the room. “I have informed Minister Granger as to the attacks that have been occurring in the country and why they have been happening. We have not as yet gotten around to how we plan to infiltrate these ranks.

Hermione looked at Harry very seriously. _Infiltrate? So this is what he thought I would find disagreeable_. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Draco’s face flit towards hers. She decided to keep her face and mind carefully blank as Harry continued.

“This group seems to only want purebloods to enter its ranks. I have discussed this at length with Lord Malfoy and his son, Scorpius, and they agree with me that it would be best if Scorpius went undercover, joined this group, and collected as much intel as he could for us. Lord Malfoy and I have already learned that this is not Voldemort’s rebirth but rather a group acting upon his ideals – ”

“And just how,” Fidelis interrupted, “have you discerned that?”

Draco gave Fidelis a hard expression. Then he removed his upper robe to reveal a Muggle shirt collar below, to Hermione’s great surprise. He unbuttoned it at the cuff on his left arm and began to roll up the sleeve. Hermione focused on a worn spot on the carpet, her stomach suddenly tightening.

Fidelis recoiled when Draco revealed his Dark Mark. Hermione noted that the ink had faded, but the symbol was just as hateful as ever. It stood out in stark contrast to Draco’s marble skin. She looked up into Draco’s face to see him staring dispassionately at his arm like it was a foreign appendage. “It’s not removable,” he said to Fidelis, “or I would have many years ago.”

“And you trust this man?” Fidelis growled at Harry.

“Yes,” Harry replied, simply. “Draco has atoned for his sins many times over.” 

“And I continue to,” Draco added.

“He should not be judged eternally for the mistakes he made as a child,” Harry continued quietly. “Minister Granger has told me that herself.”

Hermione did not meet Draco’s eyes but she felt his on her face.

“I take it,” she said, quietly, looking equally dispassionately at the Dark Mark, “That it has not burned or moved since His death?”

“There was a single time,” Draco answered her in tone, “but I believe that to be a fluke.”

Scorpius shifted uncomfortably in his chair and the three adults in the room who knew why did not remark upon it.

Before Fidelis had the chance to object again, Hermione took control of the conversation. “Scorpius,” she addressed him very seriously now, “I take it that you understand that this will be a very dangerous mission. I assume Head Auror Potter has sufficiently trained you?”

“Yes,” Harry said, answering for him, “Scorpius passed his Auror’s test this morning with flying colors.” Hermione smiled at Scorpius kindly. “I don’t doubt it. I remember your father was also at highly ranked in his class at Hogwarts.” Hermione neglected to mention that while Draco had ranked third place, it was only because she and Harry were higher. Still, out of the corner of her vision, she saw Draco jolt in surprise at having Hermione speak kindly of him. Out of the other corner, she saw Harry gave her a look that she also chose to ignore.

Fidelis was aggravated at having been so clearly left out of the conversation.

“Head Auror Potter, surely the boy is not old enough for a mission so taxing as this.”

Harry smiled at Fidelis. “I believe that he is. His father does as well.”

Blackhorn scoffed at this. “I cannot believe that a man who has so recently lost his wife would be perfectly alright with a son sacrificing himself for such a cause.” Draco’s face openly echoed the still present grief at having been widowed so young. Hermione, on the other hand, was suddenly furious.

“We all have sacrificed something for the cause,” Hermione said more sharply than she had intended. Harry gave her a sidelong look, and then nodded at the floor. Blackhorn’s eyes bulged at her. She cleared her throat.

“My apologies, Blackhorn, but if Head Auror Potter, Lord Malfoy, and Mr. Scorpius Malfoy all recognize the evident dangers that he will be placed in –”

“Excuse me, Minister, but there is no way to be certain about what dangers may lie ahead no matter how prepared the younger Mr. Malfoy may be –”

Hermione cut him off with a caustic laugh. Scorpius and Blackhorn looked at her with shocked expressions. Draco gave her another glance but chose not to speak. Instead, his right hand floated over his mouth to hide a smile.

“Exactly,” Harry interjected, taking the helm of the conversation. “That is precisely why I would want someone who is extremely experienced and savvy in the field to guide him. Someone,” Harry rested his forearms on his thighs and gave him a fatherly smile, “well, someone rather like you, Fidelis.”

While Blackhorn was thrilled to have been complimented, and in front of the Minister of Magic no less, he was visibly displeased by the task.

It was Hermione’s turn to take hold of the conversational reins again. “I’m afraid I must second Auror Potter. I have long been impressed by your work, Blackhorn. Not just your many successful raids and arrests but the men and women you have mentored these past five years are also truly remarkable Aurors. I, myself, cannot think of anyone more capable than yourself.”  

Unconsciously, Blackhorn puffed out his chest. “Well, if that is the official opinion of the Minister of Magic herself –”

“It is,” Hermione agreed, gravely, and happy to play the part Harry obviously wanted her to play.

“Then I will gladly assist in any way that I can.”

“Good,” Harry said, slapping the arms of the chair he was in. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, Minister, I would very much like to begin planning with Blackhorn.” Scorpius rose to join them. “Another time, lad,” Harry said warmly, “you more than deserve the rest of the day off after that spectacular performance.” Then he reached over the space and shook Draco’s hand. “Always nice to see you, Draco,” he said warmly. 

“Likewise,” and, again, the sentiment was returned.

Then, Harry swept out of the room, his robes catching the wind behind him, as he began to discuss the details of this plan with Blackhorn. Lord Malfoy turned to follow him but, to her surprise, Scorpius lingered. When she looked up from her paperwork, she saw him biting his lip as if wondering whether to ask her something.

She had just opened her mouth to ask him why he was still planted in her office –in a nice way, of course – when he spoke.

“Is it true,” he said abruptly, “That you Obliviated your parents and shipped them off to China when you were seventeen?”

“Australia,” she corrected quickly. She winced internally. She looked at his father. He had an eyebrow cocked and was looking at her with a twinkle of humor in his eyes. Her mouth twitched. Yes, he was right. Some old habits could not be killed.

“Ah,” he shifted awkwardly, “so it is true.” He stared at her for a minute. Then he finally spoke. “Did – do you...miss them?” He blinked rapidly as he ended his question.  

“Yes,” she laid down her quill with eyebrows contracted. “All the time.”

“Is it reversible?” Lord Malfoy addressed her now, in a gentle tone, as if he were genuinely interested. Something rose up in her that she refused to name. Instead a new thought threatened to float into her head. She hastily pushed down before it could manifest as something Draco could hear.

Now it was her turn to blink rapidly. “I tried very hard to make it so that it would not be,” She said quietly.

“If I may,” he said carefully, “if I had parents who had cared about me as much as yours did you – I would do anything to get them back.” Scorpius gave his father a quiet, considering look. It wasn’t a judgemental look nor was it one of surprise. Hermione briefly wondered if Scorpius had grown up in a household where Draco had spoken so kindly to his mother.

“I’m –” Her throat closed for a second and she cleared it with a cough. “I’m not exactly positive that I could.”

She thought that she could see his blue eyes shine a moment before it was overtaken by his crow’s feet. He seemed to be laughing a little when he said, “I might believe that if you were anyone else. But you’re not.” He cleared his throat and pressed on, suddenly speaking quite quickly. “Instead, you’re the most brilliant witch I’ve ever seen. I’m sure you could figure out a way around it if you decided to.” She watched a flush creeping into Malfoy’s cheeks. Scorpius was staring at his father.

Hermione, meanwhile, had been struck dumb.

His eyes bore into hers. The expression on his face told her that he very much wanted to say something else to her. Hermione held his gaze steadily, almost daring him to speak but not, herself, daring to sever their connection and have him think she would be so easily cowed by his stare – intense though it was.

She realized with a sicking jolt that her shoulder blades were tense in her back. She was waiting for the other shoe to drop. She was waiting for the ridicule, the nastiness, the humor at her expense –

But it never came.  

Instead something on his body let out a little chirrup. Hermione drew her body back in a little surprise. In a smooth motion, Malfoy drew out a small silver watch that had been tucked into the breast pocket of his robes. “Please excuse me, Minister, I am late to my next case.” He shut the pocket watch with a click and motioned to Scorpius. Scorpius opened his mouth like he wanted to say something but Hermione beat him to it. 

“Oh,” Hermione said. She had known that Malfoy had become a magical barrister but she had never been interested enough before to learn what his specialty was. “What is it about?”

He raised a dark eyebrow at her. Suddenly she felt rather small and ridiculous. Internally, she grumped, _I’m forty-five for Merlin’s sake._ And just as she was thinking this, he said, in a very serious tone of voice, “While I can’t divulge the particulars, Minister, suffice it to say, I will be defending the rights of a family merpeople who have found themselves at odds with the laws passed by Ministers of yore.”  He gave her a smile like they were both privy to some inside joke. “I believe I do not have to convince to _this_ Minister about how harmful these laws could be.”

“N – No,” Hermione said, her heart suddenly racing.

They shared another long look. “Well, Madame Minister, I believe we’ve trespassed on your time long enough –”

“Hermione,” she interjected. “Please.” She laughed, a little embarrassed at herself. She stared at the far left corner of her desk. “I believe we’ve known each other long enough for that.” She looked up into his eyes and smiled.

Now it was his turn to look shocked. They stared at each other with wide eyes. Scorpius, meanwhile, looked like he would have rather astral projected himself to another plane of existence. Hermione was frozen in her chair.

"Good day, then...Hermione,” he said, quietly but with warmth. He smiled softly. She gave him the smallest smile in return. “Good luck, Scorpius,” she said, turning to him before he left. “Blackhorn can be…many things but he’s certainly an excellent mentor. And if you ever need anything,” she added quickly, “my door is always open to you.” Draco gave her another small look of shock which was surpassed by gratitude. Scorpius blurted out a thank you and headed towards the door after his father. When he was at the frame of it, he turned sharply.

“Is Rose going to be home soon?” he said, entirely too quickly.

This surprised Hermione. Her shoulders shook in a small laugh. “Yes, she will be. I’m not sure if your father has mentioned it, but I have invited you both to a Christmas party that Rose is sure to be at,” she looked at him, rather wondering what would come next from his mouth or when her office would be free again.

When she said this, Scorpius suddenly looked like he could have floated out of her office. “That’s brilliant.” He blurted out again and then flushed. Just then, his father called from the hallway, “Come on, Scorp.”

“Erm – sorry Madame Minister. Good day.” 

She grinned and winked at him. “See you soon.”

And then, just like that, Draco Malfoy and his son were gone.

At first, Hermione laughed. She really had no idea that Rose had such an admirer. Rose had never breathed a word. She shook her head and returned to her stack of paperwork. She really must owl Rose and tease her about the whole thing. And then, Hermione’s mind turned to Draco. The way he had said...what he had said… An uncontrollable shiver went through her. “Merlin’s beard,” she whispered to the parchment in front of her. Then she shook her head, trying to expel all thoughts of Draco Malfoy that she could.


	5. Unexpected Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You do not do, you do not do  
> Any more, black shoe  
> In which I have lived like a foot”  
> – Sylvia Plath, “Daddy”

Scorpius caught up to his father and slung an arm around him. “Alright, Dad,” he said, with no little humor in his voice. “What in Merlin’s name was that?”

 

Draco looked at him from the corner of his eyes with a little smile. “You first, Scorp.”

 

“Have you,” Scorpius said rather loudly, and then catching the sight of two Ministry workers coming down the hall towards them, he switched to a whisper. “Have you been in love with her this whole time?” 

 

Draco could feel the heat rising on his face. “Scorp, I’m late,” he said instead. 

 

“Dad – seriously?” Scorpius stopped in the middle of the hallway, looking incredulous.

 

Draco turned to face his son.  _ This was about his mother _ , Draco registered. “Oh, Scorp, no.” This wasn’t exactly where he wanted to do this but he had made a promise to himself that no matter where or when, Draco would never leave Scorpius in doubt of his father’s meaning or intention. He knew what that was like, and he never wanted his son to feel the same. Scorpius had his hands shoved firmly into his pockets and had a stormy look on his face like he was either going to cry or start yelling. 

 

Draco came up to his son and hugged him in the middle of the hallway – as his father never would’ve done – and then, with a hand between his shoulder blades, Draco walked his son with him to his courtroom. He didn’t really know where to start, so he started in the middle.

 

“I met your mother before I ever knew I was in love with H – the Minister. And I knew that your mother was the one for me, right when I met her. The circus had come into London and she was arguing against an adolescent Zouwu being shackled, chained, and clearly abused.” He laughed at the memory, “She was so angry. I swear that her hair was crackling with anger.” He knew he had told his son this story many times, but he continued, knowing that he had intentionally left bits out. “I...admired that because, you see, Scorp, I was put on trial as a Death Eater after the War. And I met your mother right after being released. ” Scorpius’ head snapped at his father. 

 

Scorpius, of course, knew that his father had been a Death Eater – he had seen the Dark Mark many times and would even tell a humorous story to his friends about how his father had told him not to let himself be influenced by his peers because sometimes it left you with a literal brand mark (the joke of the story being, of course, that some parents ask if their child would jump off a bridge with their friend whereas  _ his _ fucked up family asked if his friend engaged in mass genocide, would he do the same? Reflecting on it now, Scorpius realized why not many people laughed at it.) 

 

“My father, who held considerable influence at the time, was able to lighten my sentence to only six months in Azkaban. He pushed against the Wizengamot for me to serve no time, but I insisted.” 

 

Draco nodded and smiled at some Ministry workers he recognized and then continued on in the same hushed tone. 

 

“It should have been longer. Much longer. But even six months in Azkaban is a terrible thing.” He looked at his son and nodded, “I was lucky. Even though my father was a Death Eater, he still had money and power. There are many in there whom I was locked up with at the same time who are still there today.” Draco wanted to shudder, remembering the damp, mouldering walls. “And when I saw your mother, well –” He knew that she was a voice for the voiceless. Someone who would understand the pain of being behind bars without having to be there herself. But Astoria Greengrass turned out to be so much more. “I knew she would understand,” he finished, a little awkwardly. He wanted to be clear with Scorpius but he also did not want to expose that raw part of himself in front of his colleagues. 

 

“She was so much better than me, in a multitude of ways. Wise, and caring, and so bloody clever.” He paused and made a noise in his throat. “She was exactly who I wanted to be, so I followed her example. But, she also came to me at the right moment in my life,” He looked up at his son, who was ever-so-slightly taller than him, “I wanted to change.” 

 

Astoria Greengrass had been like no other woman he had ever met. She was incredibly canny. He learned later that she could read people’s body language from across a room, and in observing her observe other people, he learned. He had learned so much from her. He had never asked to be taught, nor did she teach overtly him, but, as he said to his son, he learned from her example. 

After her first meal with Draco and his family, she had realized things which had taken Draco ages to piece together. When they went home together that night, Astoria laid out for him, with no reservations, exactly what she expected from him as a partner.

 

At the time, he had tried to fight her. He had told her that he would not stand for such behavior. He was the man, after all. All she had to do was spin in place and pin him with a cold, piercing look from her hazel eyes. She spoke rapidly and each revelation cut him where he was most tender. “Your father is abusive because he’s a gay man who was told that he could never be who he really was. He became what he thought was the paragon of masculinity and he’s abused you physically and psychologically ever since that time because that’s how he was treated. He and your mother clearly have an arrangement. He makes her feel smaller in order to make himself feel bigger and he does the same with you.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “Now, I will marry you, Draco. You are the love of my life, that is evidently clear to me. But I will tell you now that I will not stand for such behavior, Draco  _ Lucius _ Malfoy.” She spat. “I want you. Not your father.” 

 

He had wanted to deny it, he remembered. But he couldn’t. Her words had haunted him for days.  _ But who am I? _ The thought sliced him. It was the thought that had haunted him in Azkaban. With no small amount of pain, Draco realized that it would take him more than six months in a cell to understand it. 

 

Azkaban, Draco found out, had a particular way of drawing out the worst memories in someone. No, not Azkaban. Dementors. That was their whole purpose, wasn’t it. To take away all happy memories and leave someone a soulless husk. It gave Draco the opportunity to reflect back on the whole of his life. He spent the six months figuring out what had later taken Astoria a single evening with his family. It was easier to see it from the outside, he supposed.

 

Draco had always been a lonely child, so Azkaban was really nothing new. It felt enough like home. Just with a few more Dementors and open screams. Malfoy Manor was more like a museum than a home. All of these relics of the great and storied Malfoy past. His father could walk into any room, pick up a object at random and tell Draco where and when and exactly how it had fallen into that particular Malfoy ancestor’s hands. If the Manor hadn’t been staffed by ten house elves, Draco thought they would be drowning in dust. Part of him thought it would be what they all deserved. Later, as an adult, Draco would hate things. And birthdays.

 

Draco was kept away from other children. Narcissa had had complications conceiving – or at least that was what she and Lucius had told everyone. The truth, Draco suspected, was that it was a marriage of duty and convenience. Later, his father’s memories had confirmed it. His parents never tried for another child as they achieved a male heir the first time around. And then they coddled him, bundling him up safely so that he would be protected from the world. As such, he never really learned how to be with other children. He would lose himself in books. But in his tales of wizards who tamed dragons, the Boy-Who-Lived, or people diving down to defeat spectacular sea monsters, instead of feeling like the brave or adventurous boy who could tackle anything, Draco left those tales with a feeling of dread. After all, how could you know what the world held for you – scary or lovely – if you never saw it.

 

Before Astoria, Draco had learned from his father, only. And Lucius taught him to react to everything with fear and malice.  

 

From a young age, his father thought that he could beat Draco’s personality out of him. More than anything, Lucius hated weakness. And he saw every act of kindness, every emotional flicker within his son as a weakness. Everytime Draco came to the defense of a house elf, complimented a Muggle-born, or even looked with a modicum of fondness towards a Muggle-born –  his father’s cane could come down hard across his back. At best, Draco would receive a cold sneer from his father (usually, if they were in public). At worst, he would get a beating and his father would invade his mind (always in private). 

 

This was how Draco had become what Snape, and later, his Aunt Bellatrix, had called a gifted Occumens. But it wasn’t because it was something he was born with. His father had been training him right from the beginning.

 

And in a way he had been right to. 

And in every other way, Lucius had been completely wrong.

 

Later, when Draco had his head pressed against the mossy bricks of Azkaban while looking up at a very specific constellation through the parts in the wall that had long since crumbled into the sea, he would figure it all out. Since his birth, Lucius had been preparing his son to become a follower of Lord Voldemort. Draco never actually had a choice in the matter. He looked down at his Dark Mark in disgust. 

 

It reminded him that once, and only once, Draco had fought against his father’s  _ Legilimens _ . 

 

He was at home, in Malfoy Manor, for his birthday. His parents – well, his mother – usually made a fuss of it. There was usually a large party that Draco hated but it afforded him a chance to see his friends for a brief moment during the summer. It was a saving grace he could almost not admit, even to himself, that he needed. Without his friends, Draco would spend his days as he always did: alone, dodging his father so he could not give him the opportunity to find something at fault within his only son. (Later, when he and Harry finally became the friends that Draco had always wanted to be, he would learn that they spent the summers away from Hogwarts in much the same manner.)

 

As he came down the dark oak staircase and rounded into the Great Hall, the hairs on his forearms stood up. He would learn that this only happened when he encountered very dark magic. He had grown up with Dark objects in Malfoy Manor. His father had a habit of accumulating them. But Draco had always stayed far away from them. He always got a twisting feeling in his gut every time his father came home with a new one and proudly put it on display. (Draco understood later, much later, that the twist in his stomach that he had had when he was at Flourish and Blotts with his father – the one he had gotten while he was mocking Harry Potter and feeling the pangs of jealousy that only the incredibly isolated and friendless do [though he was certainly not making things easier for himself] – that he had felt so queasy was due to his father slipping a small diary into Ginny Weasley’s cauldron and not – as he had thought then – because of the jealousy of not being included.)

 

But on his sixteenth birthday, Draco rounded the corner into the Great Hall while rubbing at his forearms, and looked up to see a semi-circle of his father’s friends. This wasn’t too unusual. Draco’s parents used his birthday as an excuse to hold a party where their friends (and their friends’ children) were the only invites. 

 

The only difference was that his parents’ friends were all dressed as Death Eaters. Even his father was. Draco looked up into his father’s mask, dumbstruck.  

 

“Draco,” his father had hissed, taking off the mask. “It is time.”

 

Draco looked at his parents in confusion. His father had a mangled look on his face – pride and fear if Draco chose to refuse the Dark Lord and anger if he did walk away – and a look of outright fear in his mother’s.

 

“No,” was all he managed before he turned and ran.

 

He felt the familiar Cruciatus curse before he could get five steps to the door. And then his father invaded his mind. Pain wracked his body as his father flipped through his mind like it was the pages of a magazine. Draco flashed through his worst moments, his most humiliating, his loneliest, his most private. 

 

**Everything about Hogwarts was overwhelming. Even though he had read** **_Hogwarts: A History_ ** **back-to-front, everything was larger, warmer, and brighter in person. Draco could tell that it was filled with laughter and – he hoped – friends. He gaped at the lightning bolt scar as it turned in front of him.** **_That’s him, that’s him, that’s him_ ** **. The rumors on the train were true. His father had even mentioned it before he got on. In a casual tone of voice he said,** **_Oh, Draco_ ** **,** **_do look out. Harry Potter is on your train. You should try to be friends with him. After all, you wouldn’t want him to fall in with the worst sort_ ** **. Draco had nodded. His father said things like that often. But now, Harry Potter** **_The_ ** **Boy-who-Lived was right in front of him. Draco was bouncing on his heels. He wanted so terribly much to be liked by Harry. He bounded up to Harry, and introduced himself without thinking twice. Everyone had always been pleased to meet Draco, so he was sure this time would be no different. And then the red-headed boy scoffed at his name. And then Harry Potter cut his eyes at Draco and told him he knew how to choose his own friends. Shame, embarrassment, and anger flooded Draco as could hear the laughs echoing around him and he wondered what he had done to make** **_the_ ** **Harry Potter speak to him that way.** **_Stupid child_ ** **, his father taunted, not for the first time.** He knew how much Draco hated this memory, so he loved to start with it every time. Then there was a sudden spin.

 

**Then he was transported to the outer grounds of Hogwarts. He was laughing and making fun of Hermione, calling her all kinds of terrible things that he knew were bad but he didn’t mean. He saw the anger flash in her eyes but he kept going. His heart was racing. If taunting her meant that she would stay around him longer, then he would say every terrible thing he could think of. As he glanced back, laughing with Crabbe and Goyle, feeling his ego swell at making people – friends?– laugh, he missed the fact that Hermione’s arm was rocketing straight towards him. The contact let out a sickening crunch. Weirdly, after he had been punched, he felt so elated. He felt like showing people and saying,** **_Look, Hermione did this_ ** **as if some inner part of him were really saying,** **_she touched me, she really_ ** **–** **_You are so weak_ ** **, his father scoffed in his head.** **_To let a girl hit you and not retaliate. You’re not a real man_ ** **. The pain crackled in his body.** **_We will fix that_ ** **.** And then the memories spun sickeningly again.

 

**Then a memory of watching Hermione Granger, entering the Yule Ball with her dress robes fluttering around her on Viktor Krum’s arm looking so impossibly beautiful. He felt like he had never seen her before until this moment. Her smile lit him from the inside.** **_Disgusting_ ** **, his father’s voice echoed in his ear. But the memory continued. Her, twirling in Krum’s arms; him, so agonizingly jealous. Her, having Weasley humiliate her in a crowd of people; Him, Draco, watching as she ran down the hallways of Hogwarts with her dress robes flouncing around her. He excused himself from Pansy, and when Potter and Weasley weren’t looking, he followed in her wake. She ran a fair distance, but he could hear her sobbing in an empty classroom. He stood outside of it, with his back pressed into the wall. He hated her. He hated the sound of her crying. It hurt him and he felt so small. He hated not knowing what to do. His heartbeat was racing in his ears and all he wanted to do was go in there and take her in his arms and –** **_Filthy slut of a Mudblood. She’ll be one of the first to die_ ** **, his father’s cold voice rang in his ears again as the pain intensified.** And flashes of light burst in front of his eyes until –

 

**It was a year later. It was deep into the night and he was immersed in the dark of the Room of Requirements. He was half naked and Pansy was underneath him. It was his first time and everything was rushed and awkward and Pansy kept scratching at his neck and as he came he saw warm brown eyes and a smile that lit him from within –**

 

_ No _ , Draco screamed, and with all his force, he turned his father’s spell against him. Draco could still feel the pain like a thousand little beetles biting at his skin, but he realized very quickly that he had somehow found a gap in his father’s inflexible armor. Draco slipped into it and dug as quickly as he could. 

 

Immediately he could feel his father’s resistance. But it was enough for Draco to get a few flashes.  **_Lucius in the showers at Hogwarts not knowing why he was staring at the wide muscular back of the Slytherin Quidditch Captain. Lucius kissing a beautiful boy in an abandoned corridor of Hogwarts. Lucius screaming as his father beat him and invaded his mind, calling him a worm, a nothing, no son of mine all for loving another man. Lucius bottling up his real self. Lucius being forced to conceive with_ ** _ – _

Draco wrenched himself from his father’s mind. He was so shocked by what he had seen that he did not have a single moment to defend himself as then his father doubled down his attack. 

 

Half an hour later, Draco was close to breaking. He was sweating and screaming, curled into a tight little ball on the floor.  _ Do you relent? _ His father whispered. By this time, he felt like he was floating in and out of consciousness due to the pain.  _ Yes _ , he thought. As quickly as his father had invaded his mind, he also left it. When Draco was alone in his mind again, he thought,  _ anything has to be better than this.  _ And,  _ I’ll find a way out, I’ll find a way, I’ll – _

 

“Will you join us?” His father interrupted, extending a hand. 

 

Gasping and shaking, and wanting nothing more than to weep but knowing he could not, Draco nodded, his mouth slack and open. 

 

“Say it,” his mother hissed. 

 

“I will join you,” he rasped. He realized only then that he must have been screaming. 

“Call him,” His mother said, sharply. 

 

Lucius pointed his want to his naked forearm. Within seconds, the Dark Lord was there. 

 

“I am ready to join you,” Draco said. He felt the Dark Lord probe his mind, but it was absolutely empty. Draco felt hollow. 

 

“Then you are ready, my boy, to step into the path of greatness?”

 

“Yes,” Draco said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father frown. Draco knew he had to sell it. “I will follow you wherever you lead.” 

 

The Dark Lord smirked. “Good.” Then Draco lifted up his bare left forearm. 

 

The pain did not rival the Cruciatus Curse in the slightest. But it left Draco feeling, somehow, even number than before. 

 

And then the Dark Lord leaned in. “I have a very special task for you.” His mouth curled into a warped smile.

 

Fear, anger, jealousy, and pain. That had been the majority of Draco’s life until this moment. Even those moments he had shared with the people he called friends or girls he had crushes on...he was always cognizant that any one of them could be reporting back to his father. So, he bottled away any feeling that he might have of goodness, generosity, or love even at Hogwarts. Whatever happened to Draco in his early life, he would respond by lashing out in pain, anger, or jealousy. Eventually, he had buried his natural tendencies for empathy so deeply within him that even he could not access them. He felt so numb behind his mask that it, too, caused him a piercing pain. Without knowing why, at this time in his life, he could not keep himself from crying all the time and it made him feel so helpless and so angry.

 

His numbness was why, ultimately, he could not kill Dumbledore. Without being told, Draco knew that Dumbledore knew about the kind of numbness that comes with siphoning off the best of one’s self. 

 

In a way, Draco was lying to Scorpius. Astoria had been a model for him, but it was only after Draco had chosen to emulate Dumbledore that he really appreciated how Astoria lived her life as an open and generous person. It was Dumbledore who was with him as he sat in the trial for his crimes. He began to remember how kind Dumbledore had been to him, at every turn. Even as he was about to die, Dumbledore had ultimately given Draco the greatest gift he would ever receive in his life. Dumbledore given Draco his soul back. Sitting at the trial Draco learned that, while it maybe was not the best soul out there, it was still whole and intact. During nearly all of the trials of the other Death Eaters, the Order of the Phoenix recounted how Voldemort’s killings had fractured his soul and how the Golden Trio (for that’s what they were now called) had to find every last fragment of this shattered soul in order to defeat him.  _ That’s what Voldemort wanted to do to me. He wanted me to be just as broken _ , Draco thought, numbly.  _ It’s what he asked of every Death Eater _ . 

 

He watched as Death Eater after Death Eater – Yaxley, Crabbe, Goyle – all those men and women who had come to his birthday parties – stood trial. He looked into their eyes and for the first time saw something so profoundly broken expressed in them. He watched as their faces flitted with pain, anger, guilt, and jealousy under their broken eyes and he shuddered. Finally, it registered, even in Draco’s emotionally frozen state, that he had lost himself a very long time ago. With a jolt, he remembered how he could not, in Dumbledore’s final days, meet his headmaster’s eyes. It was because they were so full of love for the boy who was so broken. And yet Dumbledore had thought that his soul was worth keeping whole. He simultaneously felt incredibly guilty and impossibly lucky.

 

How could he ever repay such a gift?

 

When it was his turn to take the stand, he admitted to all of his crimes. The Unforgivables cast, the people he hurt, the intention to kill Dumbledore – all of it. He was slightly surprised when Harry defended Draco, telling the court that Draco had had the opportunity to identify him, Hermione, and Ron to a gang of Death Eaters who surely would have killed them all but didn’t. But it didn’t seem to make the slightest difference. The wizarding world was looking to separate themselves from the atrocities that had been committed. Those who thought themselves good on the Wizengamot could not admit that they so easily could have been turned to the dark too. They chose to believe that wickedness was born and not created. So, when the Minister of Magic stood up to announce the conclusion that the Wizengamot had come to, Draco took the sentencing without a turning a hair. He was looking for redemption. He had just thought it would be a longer sentence.

 

Now, sitting in this musty cage, Draco wondered why he still felt the pain, guilt, and regret. He was serving his time, wasn’t he? But the feelings lingered and he realized that going to Azkaban wasn’t going to be enough to lift his guilty conscious. So, he thought about Dumbledore. What would he do? And then for the next six months, he compared himself to Dumbledore and found himself lacking. But, in doing so, he also began to understand how to begin to make himself better. 

 

It started with empathy, and it started small. Instead of kicking away the mice that came near him, he, tentatively, began to feed them. Instead of listening to the shrieks of the people around him and despising their weakness for not being able to keep it inside, he told himself that they were people. _ We all have weaknesses _ , Draco thought.  _ Sometimes we can work to make ourselves stronger and sometimes we have to allow the weakness to take over _ .  _ As long as it isn’t harmful _ . Eventually, when he had more access to his empathy, he sent out small tendrils of compassion to them.  _ I’m sorry _ , he would say, silently.  _ I’m so sorry _ . For what, he didn’t exactly know. For them being there, for the cruel twist of fate that had landed them there. But it felt good for him to do so. For, now, Draco understood, no one was born evil. After all, he had never thought that he was evil, but he had done terrible things to good people, as his father had. And he could not stand the idea of following in his father’s footsteps any longer. 

 

This was the philosophy he had made for himself when, half a year after being released, he found himself wandering through the richly bright spectacle of the Wizard circus as it made its way down Diagon Alley. He had hoped that something would happen – that he would be able to feel anything, anything at all – but he could not. He looked around listlessly until he found himself in front of a pack of small children, a terribly angry woman, and a starved and chained Zouwu.

 

He blinked his eyes slowly and tuned in to what this woman was shouting about. She seemed to be spectacularly angry. She was railing against the ringleader of the circus. “I demand,” she said, in that haughty tone that Draco would come to know well in later years that meant she was extraordinarily miffed. “That you free this innocent animal.” 

 

As she continued her angry verbal stride, Draco looked at the creature. It wasn’t a full-grown Zouwu yet, but was maybe an adolescent. There were small children throwing various kinds of sweets at it, hoping that it would leap and catch the food. Draco watched as the Zouwu, who was used to this kind of treatment, bared its teeth and gave the children a bloodcurdling growl. The children screamed, looked fearful, and then started throwing larger things. When the Zouwu moved to protect itself, Draco could see the long scars on its back from either its chains or from vicious beatings.  _ This is how it all goes _ , he thought, feeling something shatter within himself.  _ This is the cycle. _

 

Then he turned and locked eyes with the ringmaster. “How much?” He asked, using his most lordly voice. 

 

Astoria sputtered and the ringmaster got a terrifying gleam in his eye. Then he launched a truly ridiculous number at Draco. Draco looked at him blankly and said a number that was half the original. It was still an enormous sum but Draco had seen the wear on his boots. The man was looking to get however much he could. The ringmaster smirked and they shook hands. 

 

And within twenty minutes, he found himself not only to be the most perplexed owner of a Zouwu but also the new target of Astoria Greengrass’ ire. He knew who she was, of course, as she did him. The pureblood community was not large.

 

He sank down next to the cage and considered the animal. He did not realize that Astoria was shouting at him until she stabbed him in the shoulder with her nail. 

 

“– should’ve convinced him to let the animal go or call the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures on him not bloody paying the man so he could just go ahead and buy another poor animal just to torture that one too. I’m sure he’ll go straight back to the place where he got it from and get another one so a whole fat of a lotta good that did and –”

 

Maybe the old Draco Malfoy would have lashed back with something sharp and cruel. But he was exhausted of that person and all of his limitations. He looked up into her flashing eyes and crackling hair. She reminded him so strongly of someone but he could not quite recollect whom. He was still in his post-Azkaban haze. He was fighting off the darkness and self-hatred that seemed to be attached to everything he did.  _ Maybe this is how I can change _ , he thought, looking back into the wild, golden eyes of the Zouwu. 

 

“Yes, you’re right,” he said quietly. 

 

That took the wind out of her sails quite quickly. “ – you should have – what?” She blinked at him. 

 

It wasn’t particularly easy for him to say, but something like the smallest stack of Sickles lifted off of his chest. He felt like he could breathe just a little bit more. He smiled the smallest, saddest smile and shrugged his shoulders. “You’re exactly right. But there’s still time,” he said, levitating the cage and putting a Notice-Me-Not on it without saying a word. Astoria rather gaped at him. “Are you coming?” he asked, shifting his body weight from one foot to another. 

 

“I –” she looked at him as if she were seeing him for the very first time. “I think I am.” 

 

“Well, good. I supposed we’d better hurry.” 

 

When Draco and Astoria went into the Ministry with a real life Zouwu in a cage, there were people in the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures who were not happy to see neither the former Death Eater nor the dangerous animal. But Astoria pitched her case. Then, when that fell on deaf ears, she demanded to speak to someone higher up. Draco was uncomfortable with her shouting at various people – it reminded him a little too strongly of his father – so when they, eventually, spoke with the Head of the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Draco asked, very quietly and carefully if he could do so himself. Astoria opened her mouth to give him an angry retort. All he did was say, “Please, Greengrass,” in a small and sad way that seemed to shock her into silence. 

 

As Draco spoke to the head of the department, he chose to be quiet and humble. In doing so, he clearly and passionately advocated for the animal while laying out the particulars of how he had come to own this Zouwu. It apparently had an affect on Greengrass, as she could not stop staring and blinking at him. It also seemed to have an affect on the department head. 

 

He remembered the department head looking at him with no small confusion. 

 

“So, you’d like your money back?” The older man asked. 

 

“No,” Draco said, trying to master his old habits of just calling someone an  _ infantile buffoon _ if the other person did not immediately get his drift. “Rather, I would like to see this innocent creature freed and the man who put him into that cage locked away for his crimes against this animal.” 

 

“So, you’d like to have him imprisoned for taking your money?”

 

“No,” Draco frowned. “It’s very clear to me that this animal has been harmed, and for quite some time as well,” his throat contracted. He reached for a glass of water and swallowed. He was able to speak more clearly after that. “I would like this Zouwu to be freed.” 

 

“Right,” the department head said, “And then what?”

 

“If it’s possible, track that circus man and see if he buys from someone trading animals illegally. And then arrest that man.” Draco was trying very hard to keep his cool but, really, Astoria’s logical plan quite straightforward to him.

 

“And get your money back?” 

 

“I don’t care –” Draco started to shout, but then pressed a finger into his forehead. He started again, in a calmer tone of voice. “I do not care about the money, sir. This is about justice.” 

 

The man gave him a long, considering look like he hadn’t expected Draco Malfoy – because yes, obviously, this was Draco Malfoy – to have ever said such things to him. 

 

“Alright,” he said, “I’ll see what my team can do.” The man pointed towards the door.

 

Draco remained seated. “And the Zouwu?” 

 

The man raised his eyebrows at him. “Do you want to keep him?” 

 

“Please, I’d like to know...Will you free it?” 

 

“It will take some time, but, yes, we could potentially free it.” 

 

“How can I help?” 

 

The man blinked at Draco. He said, “I’m not sure you can right now.”

 

Draco blinked and nodded. “But how could I, in the future?” The young man gave the older one a very significant look. The head of the department got the impression that here was a man who needed something to hold onto to keep himself afloat. So, he started, “Well, as a man in your position, you could…”

 

And Draco listened very intently. And then he spent the next ten years of his life doing exactly that.  

 

After the incident with the Zouwu, Astoria found reasons to bump into Draco that summer. He was still clawing his way out of his darkness, but, all of the sudden, she would be outside of his flat with a chocolate almond croissant in hand and an iced coffee in the other. At first he didn’t understand why she was there. Instead of springing directly to anger or to egotism, he asked himself if he wanted her to be there. He was surprised to learn that, yes, he did. 

 

Theirs was a slow flirtation. Draco was still feeling the boundaries of who he was and who he wanted to be. He knew that he could easily lose himself in the orbit of this beautiful, clever, passionate girl. She seemed to like him, but she did not adore him. She was clear with her feelings and obviously frustrated when he couldn’t be as frank. He was immensely attracted to her. He often his thumbs stroking the corners of the page he was supposed to be reading for law school thinking about her skin or her hair or the way she had said his name as her back arched under him rather than the task at hand. He burned to be consumed by her so he could forget himself. He wanted to lose himself in her hair, her eyes, or even the way she licked the ice cream off her fingers. He wanted to always be around this person who was so endlessly generous and open and quick to anger. This person who hated ice cream in a bowl but couldn’t get enough of it on a stick. The one who cried over house elves dying in movies. He could utterly lose himself in her. And he did, for a time.

 

About two months into their relationship, they had a terrible row right before she left for Hogwarts. They just didn’t know what the other person wanted. Draco still felt hemmed in by his family, their expectations for him, their pleasure or displeasure at his choice of profession, and he could not handle the idea facing Astoria’s expectations and failing. Astoria wanted him to be clear about how he felt and what he wanted. He just wanted to focus on himself. When he shouted that, Astoria went rather pale. She paused, crossed her arms over her chest, and looked at him with an eyebrow raised. 

 

“What now, then?” She demanded. 

 

He was breathing hard and trembling. “Astoria,” he gulped and looked at her gravely. “I think you’re it for me. You are the one I want to be with for the rest of my life. I can see it every day.”

 

She was no fool. “But,” she said. 

 

“But,” he agreed. “I’m not the man I want to be. I want to be a better one. For me, yes,” he nodded. “But really for you.”  He took a step towards her. “Because I can see it. I can see everything. You and me. A kid. The whole thing. I want to be myself with you. Not my father.” Astoria’s hazel eyes blinked rapidly. He knew she felt the same. But, saying it like this, surely she saw it too. Telling someone that they were the only person for the rest of your life – it was overwhelming. In a good way, yes. But it also reached beyond conceivable reason.  _ Wizards live a terribly long time _ , Draco thought. Both of them could still be alive at 145 or older. And 124 years of marriage was nothing to rush into lightly. 

 

But he did want to rush into it with her. He wanted to scream,  _ Just teasing! Gotcha real good, didn’t I? _ And then carry her off to the nearest person who could marry them. But it wouldn’t be fair. 

 

She let out a long and slow exhale. She nodded and looked into his eyes. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. “Two years,” she said. “That’s all I think I can manage.” 

 

“What?”

 

“Two years away from you. Well, hopefully not away,” her throat closed for a second but she kept speaking, “because I don’t want anyone else.” A tear slipped down her face. She brushed it away and sniffed loudly. He pulled a handkerchief out of his suit pocket and handed it to her. “I don’t want to talk to anyone else. I don’t want to wake up with anyone else. I don’t want to make sudden purchases of Zouwus with anyone else.” She threw down the hand that was clutching the kerchief. “So you had bloody better be certain, Draco Malfoy,” she glared at him through red-rimmed eyes. 

 

“I am,” he said, and he closed the distance to kiss her sadly. “I am.” 

 

So, they owled back and forth during her last year of school. During that time, the only things he did were study, work at a law firm, and occasionally see his family. Slowly, he made friends that he liked and who genuinely liked him. He met other women but none of them captured his heart. Meanwhile, she saw one or two boys in her year at Hogwarts. For a time, he let the jealousy eat him until he realized that all it did was push her farther away from him. He learned to not listen to that voice and, instead, held the faith that what she had said to him all those months ago was true. But he knew that he had no holds on Astoria. When Astoria had graduated, she promptly dumped whomever it was she had been seeing. Then he found any excuse to be near her. And he was still certain. 

 

Six months later, he had his degree but he was losing every one of his cases. Many clients did not want a notorious former Death Eater to represent them. Those who put up with him as their barrister said that they could not relate to him. He and Astoria spent many nights discussing it. “You are wildly talented,” she said. “You know these laws backwards-and-forwards. So, it’s not that.” She sighed and leaned back in her chair. Then she sat up suddenly as the thought hit her. “You have an image problem, love.” 

 

As soon as she said it, he knew what he had to do. It wasn’t enough to prove to himself or Astoria that he had changed. He needed to convince everyone. 

 

He began working pro-bono. He didn’t need the money but he felt as if he could not live without the respect. He worked harder than he ever had in his life to prove that he was not the same man. And then he began, slowly, to win cases even when his clients had a hard look of doubt in their eyes when they looked at him. He learned how to speak to people. Eventually, he learned that his cockiness over winning was just another form of selfishness, and he became determined to let that go too.

 

He also endeavored to leave his family’s expectations behind as he tentatively built his own family with Astoria. Within a year of her graduating, he asked her to live with him. He couldn’t stand to be away from her. And he had so little time as it was, it just made more sense. His parents were against it because she wasn’t one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. But he was starting to care less and less about what his parents wanted. As the only heir to the Malfoy estate, he suddenly knew the kind of power that he held. His parents could not cut him off. He began to realize that they needed him more than he needed them. So he decided to push back against them. In his quiet way, he pushed back against father or mother whenever either of them called someone a “filthy mudblood.” He stopped visiting as often until they got the point. 

 

And after living with Astoria for a year and a half and supporting her while she trained as a magical architect, he knew it was time. He took her away one weekend to his parents’ house in the Highlands. As they went out for a walk amongst the trees, he lingered behind her as she came towards an opening in the woods. He watched her face drop in surprise and shock and then utter happiness as she read “Marry me?” written on the charmed flowers. She threw her arms around his neck and nearly kissed him to death. Sometimes, when he liked to cast his mind back to when their making love had been the sweetest or the most intense, he thought about that clearing in the woods.

 

He married Astoria as publicly as he could. His parents hated everything about it. His mother even complained about the napkin choices. And he had never been happier. 

 

After their marriage, he could not get enough of her. When he came home for the evening, he wanted his hands all over her, under her cashmere jumpers, inside of her as she clutched the edge of the countertop. When they went to his work parties, and he looked across the room to see her in a black satin dress, he would spend the rest of the time thinking about what he would do with her when they were home. Often on those evenings, he could not wait until they were home and opted for the back of a private car instead.

 

He loved having Astoria. He loved being deep inside of her, her gasping and moaning and giving him a look that said she was so utterly his. He loved her stretched out arching her back underneath him or when her limbs fell all around him. He loved knowing how every part of her tasted. He loved how she bit his bottom lip right before he came. And when they started trying for a baby, he almost forgot the point of the exercise. But mostly, he loved how, after, when he was still inside of her, she’d laugh, run her thumb over his jaw and looked up at him in complete happiness.

 

And then one night he came home to find her coughing up blood. 

 

“Oh,  _ Merlin _ ,” she’d said, in between coughs. “Draco. Get my Mum. Right now.” 

 

“No, Astoria, I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s –” 

 

“The hell you are. Get my mother now, Draco!” 

 

Draco backed away in shock. He forced himself to be calm so he wouldn’t splinch himself and immediately Apparated to the Greengrass estate. Olivia Greengrass looked up at him in utter confusion. “Draco, it’s quite late. What’re –” 

 

“It’s Astoria,” he said, his eyes wild with panic. “She – there’s blood and she won’t stop coughing and she says she won’t go to St. Mungo’s –”

 

Lady Greengrass’ face fell. “Merlin,” she swore as she reached for her wand. 

 

Draco remembered looking at his mother-in-law’s feet in her house slippers in shock as she told him. He could not process it. Nor could he process how his imperious mother-in-law was now giving him marching orders in his own kitchen while wearing skunk slippers that had a toy head  _ and _ tail attached. 

 

“Snap out of it, Draco.” Olivia Greengrass said sharply to him, coming back after having Astoria, who was feeling faint, lie down in a dark room. “She told me you could handle a crisis. And you are going to need to.”

 

So, mincing her words, Olivia explained it to him once again. 

 

Her mother, the former Lady Greengrass, had made a blood pact with her best friend that she could not keep. The secret of what the blood pact had been about had died with her. The current Lady Greengrass only knew that her mother had not been able to keep it. “And then the vial that held their conjoined bloods turned black,” she told Draco solemnly. 

 

“When my mother died after a horse crushed her, we thought it was over. But we were always afraid that one of us would inherit the curse.” Olivia Greengrass leaned heavily back and put her slippered feet onto the chair next to her. “We knew the signs. My mother started displaying them before she was untimely killed. You see, an unfulfilled blood pact doesn’t stop. Daphne was already two years old when my mother had her accident. But Astoria was just about to be born. It will carry on in the one who is most innocent in the family, you see. At that time, it was Astoria. And,” she looked up wearily at Draco. “I’m afraid it’s only beginning.” 

 

He had lived in denial for a very long time. 

 

Draco had wanted to do everything in his power to keep her. Blood transfusions. Purchasing potions that English wizarding world had deemed too dangerous for medical consumption. Anything except sitting and watching Astoria fade before his every eyes.

 

But there was nothing he could do. 

 

And then Astoria became pregnant and every day was a struggle for Draco not to lose his mind to the anxiety and despair he felt. The birth had been extremely difficult for Astoria. Draco had at least two situations where he was terrified that he would lose them both. But she was incredibly strong-willed. After Scorpius had been delivered, the doctors told Draco that, due to the blood curse, there was nothing they could do to stop her bleeding. 

 

“What kind of doctors are you,” he seethed. “That would leave a woman to die in her own blood?” Witnessing her on the table, bleeding – it almost sent Draco in a tailspin because it reminded him of a time when he, too, lost so much blood. 

 

“There’s nothing we can do,” the doctor said, firmly. 

 

“Why can’t you try?” He shouted. “Try anything?” And then he kept saying  _ anything, anything, anything _ as he broke down weeping. 

 

But she had survived. He was clutching her hand and staring at her with abject despair when her eyes fluttered open. He inadvertently shouted with relief. She winced. “Merlin, Draco.” she murmured. “Some of us are trying to sleep.” 

 

As soon as the doctors saw that she had pulled through, they relented to Draco’s wishes. They gave her a blood transfusion and magicked her post-birth body up correctly. But, the doctors were ultimately right. The blood transfusion had given them only slightly more time. They were helpless in the face of a blood curse. 

 

As Astoria spent the next week in recovery, Draco came to balk at the way the doctors treated her alternatively like glass or like it had been her fault that it was on her. It later had an enormous bearing on the way that he treated people who felt utterly helpless. 

 

A few days later, when Lady Greengrass was presented with Scorpius, she let out a long sigh. “Thank Merlin,” she said, only to Draco, “that the Malfoys only have boys. Then the curse will die with the mother.” Draco felt sick to his stomach but he did not say a thing. 

 

Scorpius became Draco’s light and life. Between him and Astoria, Draco felt like he would have done anything to protect them. Endure hours of the Cruciatus Curse. Walk into a dragon’s mouth. Anything to keep his small family safe. It renewed his interest in being a better person. 

 

One night as he, Astoria, and their five-year-old Scorpius were over for dinner, Draco’s parents began discussing the merits of the living up north in their Scottish home. “After all,” Narcissa said haughtily, “only the best of the best up there. No filthy mudbloods allowed, you see.” Scorpius, who was a good listener and a curious boy, turned to his mother and asked what a “mudblood” was. Draco stiffened in his chair at hearing the word come out of his perfect son’s mouth and something deep within his gut hissed. Astoria replied as calmly as she would if they were at home alone, “It’s a terrible name to call someone that only weak people use because it makes them feel better about themselves.” And then she wiped his mouth. “You’ll never need to use it, love.” She kissed his forehead while Scorpius’ grandparents seethed. Draco, biting his inner cheek to keep from laughing, very seriously stabbed a potato. 

 

At the end of the meal, Draco said that he would be supportive of his parents moving. That, yes, he would be happy to take over the Manor (if Astoria agreed with it, of course). Though if they did move, then he really must insist that he take over the Malfoy Wizengamot chair. “I’m sure we can all agree,” he said, using his favorite lawyer’s trick, “that we would not want something unseemly to pass while you were away, especially when we knew we could have prevented it.” 

 

Lucius gave him a hard stare. He didn’t dare invade Draco’s mind any more. But if he had tried, he would have found that Draco’s mind was like a steel trap – at least where his father was concerned. Instead, Lucius gave Draco a hard stare before nodding curtly.

 

So, without much fuss at all, Draco’s parents moved away to Scotland and Draco took up the Malfoy seat in the Wizengamot. 

 

Once in that seat, Draco felt that he was able to control much more than he could by getting single cases passed. Shacklebolt’s administration was working on precisely the issues that Draco wanted to change. He and Astoria were some of the only purebloods who agreed that more rights for others did not mean fewer rights for themselves. It was then that Draco had the occasion to see Granger present law after law to the Wizengamot. 

 

He watched her, in her crisp white suit that had been perfectly and stylishly tailored to her body, keep her back ramrod straight and tell the pureblood community in the most precise legalese how the Ministry proposed to give Muggle-borns equal rights. He could almost feel the wave of anger directed at her. They thought she was advocating for fewer rights for them and they hated her for it. If she could feel it as well, she did not turn a hair. 

 

Halfway through her speech, he realized that he was beaming. He almost hoped that she would look at him. But she didn’t. She just bravely soldiered on. The light gleamed off of her hair and her warm, dark amber eyes glinted with a fierceness he knew well and had missed. When she finished, he could see her mouth lift ever so slightly as she met Harry Potter’s eyes. And he felt a familiar stirring in his chest.

 

And then he realized two things. The first was that he never had hated Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived (except maybe once when Harry left him to bleed out in a bathroom, but Draco had done terrible things right back in revenge), he had only ever been jealous of not being his friend. And the second was that he wished more than anything that he had received that smile from her. Or any. 

 

_ Oh, _ he thought, as he felt the floor underneath him give out as he realized the gut-twisting truth that he had been in love with Hermione Granger for years. By now, Draco prided himself on knowing every corner of his emotions. How could that have escaped him? On the long walk home, he searched his feelings, attempting to pinpoint when exactly it started. He realized he could not. He could remember almost every instance of their time together at Hogwarts. He remembered seeing her, with her unruly hair on Platform 9 ¾ and feeling something within him jolt. He remembered how his heart would lift whenever she spoke back sharply to the professors. He remembered how her eyes had searched his whenever he walked into the Great Hall after he had been branded for Death and how it had made him feel less alone.

 

How long had Draco been in love with her? Since he first came to understand her as a person. As he sat on the Wizengamot month after month, he came to understand her so much more. 

 

Eventually, Astoria cottoned on. As he was going on about how much he admired Granger one evening and how he was sure that she would be the next Minister, she looked at him with a strange expression. It was mingled hurt and amusement. “So, how long have you been in love with the future Minister?” 

 

“What – ? No, Astoria, that’s preposterous –”

 

“Oh, I see. Right. That long?” Astoria laughed. 

 

“I –” He reached across the table to grab her hand. “Astoria, I would never act on it. Our family –” He swallowed, looking at his six-year-old sprawled out on the carpet with his nose in a book. “It means everything to me. I would never do anything –” 

 

“You goose,” Astoria said, laughing again and shaking her head. “I know.” 

 

Draco gaped at her. She raised her eyebrow, leaned back in her chair, and threw her arm back on it. “People love to call it ‘falling in love,’ ” she said, with her usual wisdom. “That’s not really it. Everyone chooses the person they want to love. And, Draco,” she gave him a half-smile. “You chose me.” She finished, simply.

 

“Yes,” he was a little confused why plates weren’t being hurled past his head. “And I would all over again.” 

 

“Mm,” she replied. “That’s nice.” He gawped at her again. They ate the rest of the dinner talking of other things. It was after Scorpius had been put to bed and they were climbing into their own that then she took her own tough mask off. “I can’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt,” she whispered, as he curled an arm around her and drew her in close. “But not for the reasons you think.” He watched a silent tear fall on her nose. “It’s hard not to be jealous because she’s healthy and she’ll have a whole life with her husband and family and I’ll –” she choked. 

 

“We don’t know anything about this curse, Astoria. There could still be hope.” He wiped the tear off of her face.

She couldn’t answer him. They both knew the truth. Draco knew he had to wake up. He just had to. Instead, that night, he kissed her slowly and showed her how much she meant to him.

The first signs that Astoria was not winning the fight against the blood curse came when Scorpius was seven. Astoria began coughing and could not stop for hours. And then she had an accident when Draco wasn’t there. Draco had been working late at the office, partially to avoid the guilt and denial that he had around Astoria. He could barely look at her. All he felt was grief. He had lost the vivacious young woman and was left with an invalid. It made him incredibly angry because he felt so helpless. He was only 33 and he was losing his best friend, a love of his life, right before his eyes.  

And then, that night going home, he recognized how deeply unfair he had been to Astoria. She was a wonderful mother, always. But as he walked in, there was glass under his feet and the rug was waterlogged. When he looked up, he saw that the windows had been shattered, and there was the smell of something that had burned to a crisp. Astoria was dead asleep on the couch. Scorpius was tucking his mother in and there was an official Ministry warning about underage children using magic on the counter. Draco bent down and gathered Scorpius’ hands in his own. 

 

“Hiya, Scorp. How’s Mummy?” 

 

“Alright,” Scorpius shrugged in that limp-bodied way that only young children can. “But I can’t tell you. I promised. She said you’d be mad if I told you.” 

 

“Mad about what, love?” 

 

Scorpius was obviously still upset by what happened and Draco gently coaxed the whole story out of him promising that, no, he would not be mad at Mummy and that sometimes it was okay to break promises to help people. Then Scorpius told him with a sideways frown that Astoria had fainted while making dinner for them. When she woke up, the kitchen was filled with black smoke and the roast she had been making was on fire. 

 

Scorpius had been coughing hard. But he just wanted some air, he said, unhappily to his toes. So he had accidentally shattered the windows. The sudden influx of oxygen had made the fire worse and Astoria had to perform a terrific  _ Aguamenti _ spell to make sure that she and her son were safe. But it had taken her a lot of effort. She said she was just going to lie down for a few minutes. 

 

“How long ago was that,” Draco asked, suddenly exhausted and somber.

 

“ ‘bout two hours ago,” Scorp replied, his tummy giving off a tell-tale rumble. 

 

“Oh, Scorp,” Draco said, pulling him into a tight hug. “I am so sorry I wasn’t here.” He pulled away and put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “I’ll tell you what. I have a bit of Muggle money on me. How about we get a Muggle pizza?” 

 

Scorpius’ eyes went huge. Muggle pizza was one of his favorite treats. “Can we really, Da?” 

 

“Of course we can,” he kissed his son on the forehead. “You can even use the phone.”

 

Scorpius screeched and bolted into the next room. The sound jolted Astoria out of her sleep. Draco crawled to her, still on his knees. “Hiya, love,” he said to her. 

 

“Oh, Draco,” She said in a wearied tone. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. 

 

“None of that, love.” He said, taking her hand. “I should be the one to apologize. I should have been here.” He reached up to her forehead and petted a few stray locks away.  “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day –” (She hadn’t really said it. They’d had yet another row about how he was working too much and how Astoria could not manage her work, a child, the household, and her blood curse.) “And you are right. I’m going to see if I can take a break from my job. Permanently, I think.” He shook his head as she opened her mouth. “Don’t speak.” He smiled. “You’ve done such a marvelous job of taking care of me and Scorp. It should be my turn now.” His finger traced over her small smile. 

 

“I’m so happy I married you,” she said, quietly, before closing her eyes again. 

 

And then Draco did everything he could to make the rest of her life as happy as he could. Eventually, when the rumors of Scorpius not being his biological son but Voldemort's (Merlin, had that one ever cut him deep), he decided to take his wife around the world, wherever she liked. The Malfoy vault could more than support it, he had told her, with a laugh. And they escaped, for a time. Until her blood curse made her bed-ridden and they had to come back.

 

At this time, when he was caring for his wife, the only things he would allow himself to do were to read all the news related to the law and to sit on the Wizengamot. He knew that Head Aide Granger held no feelings for him. She never even looked his direction. But it didn’t matter to him. His attention was turned fully to his wife. Whatever feelings he had had before were pushed way to the back of his heart. Yet, still, he could not help but admire her panache, her stubbornness, and her absolute resolve. But, for now, that was it. 

 

And then the hardest part came. Draco found himself completely alone again. Once again, he did not lean on a woman to fix him. He did that all himself. But now, he could not deny the deep love he felt whenever he encountered the Minister. And now, she – at least seemed – to have the same regard for him. The way she had given him a half-daring smile when she shook his hand the other day (he almost felt like lightning had hit him when her skin slid over his). He had walked away from that meeting kicking himself for being too much of his old self. But he could not deny how hope had filled him up when the door opened into her office and her face flushed and her amber eyes brightened when she saw him. He couldn’t deny the feelings that he had felt, though they completely diverged from what he had felt for Astoria.

 

“So, if you’re asking me, Scorp, to choose between them – I can’t.” Draco shrugged. “There is no first or second place in my affections.” He knew that now. While they had heaps in common – both women were brilliant, generous, beautiful, and ruthless when they had to be – they were ultimately different people. So the love he had for them was distinct. “Your mother knew that,” he said, his eyes soft and considering. “I never told you, because you were too young. No boy should lose his mother at fourteen. Merlin knows that fourteen is enough of a hell hole already.” Scorpius noted that his father suddenly looked much older, as he remembered that time, and so much sadder. Draco could feel the tears prick his eyes. This was really not the place to have this conversation. 

 

So, he opted not to talk. “I’ll, urm, I’ll show you.” 

 

Scorpius’ brow contracted. “No, Dad, I’m not going to –”

 

“It’s alright, son.” Draco smiled at him, sadly.

 

Scorpius blinked. He was curious. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had seen into his father’s mind. Neither of them wanted to make a habit of it, but it was helpful sometimes. “If you’re sure, Dad.” Scorpius searched his father’s eyes. Draco slightly inclined his head. “ _ Legilimens _ ,” Scorpius whispered, waving his wand by his side. 

 

Suddenly, Scorpius was in Malfoy Manor, in what he knew to be his parents’ bedroom. His mother, Astoria, was on the four-poster bed. She looked drawn and lifeless. Scorpius knew from his own memories that his father had tried to spare him this version until the very end. Draco had called for Scorpius to return from Hogwarts right when Draco thought his mother would pass. He had wanted his son to be able to see his mother one last time. Scorpius remembered the shock of seeing his mum as pale as the sheets around her. 

 

He learned later that the blood curse was exactly that – it depleted her blood platelets until she was, quite literally, bloodless. It was an incredibly cruel and unusual punishment. It remained, to this day, one of the few things that Scorpius could not make peace with about magic. 

 

Now, in his father’s memory, he looked at the bed where his mother was lain out and saw his father, drawn, pale, right at his mother’s side. Scorpius noticed that his father was thin and had enormous dark circles under his red and puffy eyes. Since Scorpius was in Draco’s memory, he could feel the overwhelming amount of pain and sadness that his father had while watching one of the great loves of his life literally waste away in front of him. 

 

Astoria was attempting to speak, but Draco almost wouldn’t let her. He was stroking her auburn hair and tears tracked down his face silently. “Darling, it’s ok, you don’t need to say a thing.” 

 

Her breath was labored and she seemed to be floating in and out of consciousness. But she was fighting. Whatever she needed to say, she was using up the her reserve of her energy to do so. “Draco –” she gasped. 

 

Draco shook, fresh and silent tears falling from his eyes as he took her hand. Scorpius had never seen his father so vulnerable. No wonder Draco had wanted him to see it like this. There was almost no way to put it into words. When Scorpius was away, his father had spent years rebuilding himself after Astoria’s death. While he and his father had kept in touch while he was at Hogwarts, almost daily at one point, Draco had never told him so much before. Scorpius realized now that it might have been too much for even his father to say it out loud. 

 

“You need,” she made a terrible sound as she gasped for air like her lungs could not keep up, “you need to carry on with your life.” 

 

“Astoria – ” he said in an anguished voice. “How could I?” His voice broke and Draco dipped his head to cry silently, both of his hands around his wife’s, curling and uncurling as they held it. 

 

“Draco, you must,” Astoria wheezed, “otherwise I will haunt you forever. And you’ll hate it.” 

 

Draco was so shocked that he laughed through his tears.  “Why wouldn’t I don’t want that?” he looked at her in earnest. “I don’t want a life that you’re not in.” Scorpius saw that his mother had tears rolling silently down her cheeks as well. She did not want to leave him either, but she also looked resolved to die. Scorpius knew that she had made her peace with it. She had had years to consider it. She knew. 

 

But Draco hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it. He wanted to live in a world where she was healthy even though she wasted away in front of his eyes every day. He could not let her go. And Astoria was evidently worried that he would not be able to. She wanted to depart without any ties to this world. At this moment, Scorpius was a fourteen year old boy. He would miss his mother, of course, but he would not ask her to stay. Draco might. And Astoria wanted to die, and to leave, in peace. 

 

Draco gasped, now unable to keep from openly weeping. “You are –” he swallowed but his voice broke any way. “You are the love of my life. I will never love anyone the same way again.” 

 

Astoria looked at him and smiled thinly. Her skin was so tight against her face that Scorpius could see the skull underneath. “No,” she said, her voice choking, “it won’t be the same. But it will be just as real.” 

 

Draco shook his head. “No, no.” He said, and pressed his head into the bed to suppress a noise. Scorpius could hear that his father was continuing to deny it even into the sheets. He lifted his head and his face was covered in wet, from tears and snot. He wiped his face angrily with his sleeve and blinked rapidly as more tears, clearly unwanted, continued to stream. Scorpius watched as his father’s heart broke in front of him.

 

Astoria reached out an ashen hand. “My love, it’s time.” 

 

Draco’s bottom lip trembled but he tried to fight it. “I can’t.” And his father’s voice almost broke him. The back of Astoria’s hand floated to touch Draco’s cheek. “You must,” she said in the quietest voice. 

 

Draco grasped that hand and kissed it. Then he kissed the hand he was already holding. He wept and keened as Astoria’s thumb pressed into his cheek. But her words seem to ring in his ears. Shaking and panting, Draco looked at her, with an endless grief that bordered that territory into numbness. He nodded and kissed her forehead. It was too much for him. He started shaking harder and the tears came faster. But Draco did as he promised.

 

Out in the hallway, Draco leaned against the wall, covering his mouth with his hand and sobbing with a sincerity that broke Scorpius’ heart. Though he was still weeping, he stumbled into his study. Scorpius witnessed (very much now wishing he could reach out to his father), as his father sat down in front of the fireplace on a red leather ottoman. Draco clenched the sides of it and willed himself to become a master of his emotions. Minutes ticked by, but eventually, Draco was able to breathe normally again. He waved his wand in front of his face and reached for some Floo powder. He shouted, “Hogwarts headmaster” sharply as he stuck his head into the emerald flames.  

 

  “Minerva,” he said, “it’s time.” 

 

The memory dissipated as Scorpius saw himself, fourteen, lanky, and visibly upset, step through the flames in his Slytherin pyjamas into Malfoy Manor.

 

Scorpius exited his father’s memories with a lurch that left his stomach reeling. He was face-to-face with his father, again. While Draco could not speak the pain of her death, the memory of it had also left him weeping anew. Draco sniffed, looked up at the far corner of the ceiling, and pressed the tears out of his eyes with the flat of his hand. “I had to let her go,” he said simply, with a shrug. “I could not trap her here just because I couldn’t bloody well move on. And in some ways, I haven’t. But she was right.” He swallowed and nodded. “I do love someone now. But it is not the same. And only time will tell if anything will come of it. And if it does, I cannot say if it will be better or worse.” Draco gave his son a watery smile. 

 

Scorpius felt astonishingly awkward. He didn’t know what to say. But instead of saying something spectacularly unremarkable in the face of his father’s open generosity with his most vulnerable self, Scorpius leaned down and wrapped his father into a tight hug. “Thank you, Dad,” he croaked. 

 

His father chucked into his shoulder and gave his back one solid pound before leaning in fully. 

 

Scorpius was sure that there were Ministry officials passing them by maybe wondering who had died if two men were embracing each other like this _but_ _Merlin’s beard_ , Scorpius thought _, they can all bloody go hang themselves._

“She’d be a fool not to love you,” Scorpius said, finally. 

 

Draco laughed and pulled away from his son with an eyebrow raised. “She’s very married, son.” 

 

Scorpius made a sound of disbelief in his throat. “Then why does she have a Notice-Me-Not and an Extendables Charm in the corner of her office.” 

 

Draco’s eyes widened. “What?” 

 

“Mm,” Scorpius said, looking around to make sure no one could hear them. “Learned how to spot ‘em in Auror training. There was a haze around her ficus leaves. Auror Potter could see it too. He kept looking at it.” Scorpius half-shrugged. “Something’s not right.” He finished simply. 

 

No, that much Draco had also seen. It was why he had been very careful around her, almost not daring to get too close. He had watched her in public with Ron Weasley before. He watched as the confident, luminous witch turned into a specter of herself. He had also watched Weasley make her flinch in public before. It had made something within him hiss with anger.  

 

He so wanted to step in between the situation but he knew he could not. How could he even begin to speak to the now Minister Granger, he had thought. There was too much to apologize for, on both sides. 

 

It was why he was shocked when, while he went ‘round to pick Scorpius from Godric’s Hallow after what all of those involved seemed to only be calling  _ the incident _ , Potter wandlessly called up two empty glasses and asked if he, Malfoy, liked firewhiskey. Draco had laughed. “Yes,” he answered. As the two men spoke, they realized that they had more in common than they had ever recognized before. By the third or fourth time one of the two men was popping around to the other’s house to collect his respective son, they began to talk about their childhoods. Draco did not go into detail about it, but Harry had been shocked when Draco talked about he hated summer because he had no friends and he was always tried to dodge his father. 

 

“ ‘Re you joking?” Harry said with his mouth hanging open. “That’s how I spent every summer at the Dursleys.” 

 

“I think I knew that,” Draco smiled softly over his firewhiskey. 

 

“Right,” Harry shook his head. “I forgot. That’s when everyone knew everything about me. No one really gives a shit any more now that I’m a balding, ugly, middle-aged man.” 

 

“You’re not that bald,” Draco said placidly. Harry snorted his firewhiskey and coughed. “Sorry, old habits.” Draco grinned. “I think I kept my ear to the ground a little more than most. I wanted to be your friend something terrible. I was really looking for any opportunity.” 

 

Harry blinked, said, “huh,” and then shook his head, laughing. “You know,” he said in an astounded tone. “Hermione said that to me not two months ago.”

 

Draco hummed. “I guess I’m not surprised. Granger’s possibly not only the cleverest but also the kindest witch I’ve ever had the pleasure to be punched by.” 

 

Harry threw his head back and laughed. “I say it all the time. She is definitely the bright witch of our age.” 

 

Draco clinked his glass with Harry’s. “And a terrific Minister. What’s not to like?” 

 

Harry gave him a look that Draco missed. 

 

“You know,” Harry said, “You’re not so bad.” 

 

“Thanks,” Draco grinned. “Put it on my tombstone,” he quipped. “ ‘Draco Lucius Malfoy: not so bad. Could be better.’ ” 

 

Harry laughingly replied, “ ‘Harry James Potter: the Boy-Who-Lived-and-Died-and-Lived-and-Died again.’ ” 

 

Draco chuckled. “ ‘Draco Lucius Malfoy: Could be worse.’ ” But that touched something too deep and Draco buried his face in his drink. He felt Harry clap his shoulder.

“Yeah. It could,” Harry said, somberly. “But it isn’t.” 

Draco looked up into his friend’s face to catch Harry giving him a warm and considering look. Draco knew he had by no means been forgiven, but it was a start. He squeezed the other man’s shoulder in response and blinked a little too rapidly. “You know I’m...so sorry for everything.” Draco said, looking deep into his drink. “It wasn’t right. And I – urm – well, I wish I could take back so much.” 

 

This time Harry didn’t touch him but Draco understood the warmth in his voice. “Me too, mate, me too.”    

 

Draco came back to himself with a soft blink. He and his son were now standing outside of the courtroom. Looking up at his son, he could not help but feel a well-spring of pride. Scorpius didn’t have an easy childhood, watching his mother slowly die in front of him and dealing with the pain of thinking that he might have been someone else’s son. And while Scorpius had made some truly grievous errors, Draco could see the goodness in him. And it almost floored him, the amount of pride he had. He was about to say so but his pocket watch released an irritated churrup again. He cleared his throat. “Right, Scorp. I’d better head in, then.”

 

“Alright, Da,” Scorpius said, using the name for Draco that he had not used since he was seven. 

 

“I’ll see you at home,” Draco said into his son’s broad shoulder. His son grinned, clapped his dad on the back, told his dad he was going to be fantastic, and loped off. Watching his son's back become smaller and smaller, Draco could not stop thinking about how lucky he had been and silently thanked Astoria for the thousandth time for the gift he would never be able to repay. Then he entered the courtroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fundamentally believe that Draco Malfoy can be redeemed. I think it was clear in 6 and 7 that he did not want to be involved in whatever Voldemort/his parents were making him do. JKR has said that Draco had to squash his empathy in order to be a bully. That may be true, but I believe that it is worth exploring just how men are asked to kill that which makes them most human and leaves them an empty shell. I would recommend the documentary "The Mask You Live In" for any one who wants to know how toxic masculinity can harm both men and women. I think it's also incredibly illuminating that Draco married someone who did not believe that specific people were lesser than others. This could be read as a sign of his weakness that he would marry someone who could stick up for him but I chose to believe that it meant that Draco really wanted to be better.
> 
> It's no surprise to me that the effective Nazis of the Harry Potter world only present themselves while behind masks. Of course, this is about hiding their identity, but I also think it serves as a metaphor for hiding away the best parts of themselves – the parts that feel empathy for others.
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think. I would love to hear your thoughts about this. 
> 
> I will also just say that I decided to write this story in this way because I feel that it would be realistic to the character growth. Draco doesn't always have to be Harry's foil. He can also be his friend in the same way that you may love certain things that your friend hates. There will be a pay-off, but the road to redemption is long and arduous and our two heroes have much to undo before achieving the happiness that they are due.


	6. Hard Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione goes to the opera & has uncomfortable conversations.

Of course, Hermione could not so easily forget Draco Malfoy after he had left. Her mind drifted towards him multiple times throughout the rest of the day. Every time it did, she forced it back on the topic at hand. But after he left, she could not help but admit that the rest of the day dragged in a funereal march.

It was one of those Ministry days that she would, overall, rather forget. Not that it had been particularly awful. It was just long  and – if she could admit it – boring. When, at nineteen, she had stepped into the Ministry, she had been full of hope and excitement. She thought change would be quick and that people would easily see her point of view on matters of state. She had long learned otherwise.

Her toughest meeting had probably been with Percy. Not only was he the terrifying bore that he always was but Hermione was also on edge the whole time. Percy had been known to make a supercilious remark whenever he knew about Ronald and Hermione’s marriage troubles. So, Hermione was naturally wary. 

But Percy blathered on for an hour, over-explaining laws that Hermione knew inside-and-out, and being generally condescending, as was his tendency. When business had concluded, they chatted briefly about his wife, Audrey, and their daughters Molly and Lucy. Percy didn’t ask about Hermione, Ronald, Rose, or Hugo, so Hermione revealed nothing. She felt distinctly relieved when he finally shuffled out of her office. _Thank god that was the last meeting,_ she thought, rubbing her temple and resting her head against the back of her armchair.

Then another reminder made her stomach twist. This was the moment she had been dreading all day. _Home_ , she thought, darkly. She felt a rush of sadness and exhaustion. She closed her eyes and stayed very still for a few long minutes. They only snapped open at the sound of a knock on her office door. She flicked her wrist and it opened.

It was Godfrey, flanked by the rest of the security team. “Marm,” he said. “Will you be needing assistance back to the residence?”

Hermione opened her mouth instinctively to say no but then thought better of it. She nodded once and pushed herself out of her chair. _Now or never_ , she supposed.

She made idle chatter with Godfrey while they made their way through the halls. She felt less self-conscious about having a whole dark flock of security Aurors if she could pretend just for a moment that they were something like friends. Godfrey, in his usual serious voice, told her about his daughter and how she was just learning how to talk. He told her a very funny story about how she was not quite able to articulate between an _f_ and an _s_ sound, much to the shock of his mother-in-law. Hermione let out a small laugh, but her mind was elsewhere. She was anxious about who or what she would find once she opened the door to the Ministry residence. She could not handle another row with Ronald in front of her security team, she really could not.

But like it or not, her security team insisted on seeing the inside of the residence before she did. “Crookshanks,” she muttered bitterly, and turned her head away from the spectacle of tiles flying backwards to let her team pass through. As she stood there, she parsed out why exactly she was feeling not just trepedatious but also furiously angry. And then she remembered. The red thong. Maldrake’s smirk. As she stood there, hands deep in pockets, and staring off into the middle distance, she suddenly felt like she was spoiling for a fight. It was an emotion she had to pocket as a voice called out to her.

“Marm?” Godfrey’s voice echoed down the corridor. She reluctantly forced her legs to walk into the residence. When she was inside, she was surprised to see that neither her husband, nor the glass on the floor was there. Godfrey, however, had spotted the hole in the wall. His eyes slid off of it and into her own. She caught his startled look before she looked down hastily.

“All clear, sir!” Another security Auror’s voice called out from the back of the residency.

If Godfrey was going to question her about the obvious hex mark in the wall, he must have seen something in Hermione’s face that made him think better of it. Hermione’s head shifted as she saw Cordelia approach her with a midnight blue gown with two other people trailing her. “For tonight?’ Hermione asked. Cordelia nodded as Hermione recognized the other two as being particularly skilled make-up witches.

“We’ll be outside, marm,” he said softly. Hermione nodded sharply and moved quickly to the back of the residency and into the bedroom. The three women followed her, and Cordelia began to brief her about the particulars of this gown: the rising young English fashion designer, that woman’s atelier, and how grateful the designer had been to have Hermione choose her. Hermione lifted a brow and looked at Cordelia. “All praise goes to you, Cresswell, as usual,” Hermione shook her head. She truly did not care for fashion but when she had stepped into the role of Minister, she had suddenly been flooded by requests from designers. She had been utterly bewildered until Fleur pointed out that, as Minister, Hermione was going to become a fashion icon whether she wanted to or not. It had been an idea that Hermione had slowly, very slowly, warmed to.

“So,” Hermione said as she kicked off the flats she’d been wearing for two days straight and reached reluctantly for heels, “I take it that this is a bigger event than I had anticipated.”

“We just want you to look your best, ma’am,” one of the women said. Hermione had met her several times but could not, at the moment, recollect her name. It was mostly for that reason that she didn’t insist on not being called ma’am.

Hermione gave Cordelia a darkly humorous look at the implication that Hermione was not, in fact, looking her best. Cordelia caught it and had to pass her laugh off as a cough. As Hermione began to shed her clothes in order to step into the gown the other woman was holding, Cordelia started to brief her on the night’s events. Apparently, it would be more of a soiree than Hermione had anticipated. There was going to be a reception held by the President of France before the opera wherein Hermione was supposed to butter the President up so that he would be more amenable to the tariff changes. Hermione tried not to snort as the make-up witch’s brushes flew across her face. There would be the usual crowd of purebloods who were on the Wizengamot, and Cordelia reminded her of which people she would need on her side for the bill they would be presenting in a month’s time. Hermione blinked an affirmative response as a tube of lipstick painted itself perfectly on her lips. She felt her hair become braided in a knot that was low on the back of her neck as she rolled her tired shoulders back.

“And Fleur?” Hermione asked. Cordelia shook her head and shrugged. “There is no new news regarding Mrs. Weasley.” Hermione smiled. “Good.” Then a bottle of perfume spritzed Hermione a few times and flew back into the make-up box from which it came. 

“Well,” she exclaimed, “am I presentable?”

Cordelia smiled softly. “More than that, Madame Minister.”

Hermione snorted and rolled her eyes. Then she turned and caught a sight of herself in the mirror. She smiled at what she saw. “It’s perfect,” she said as thanks to the two women who had put the look together. They beamed at her and then Hermione was on her way.

  

The President of France reached out to her, grasping both of her hands, and they kissed on either side of each other’s faces. “Madame Minister,” he said, in his usual honeyed purr, “please allow me to say how breathtakingly beautiful you look tonight.”

“Monsieur le Président, vous dites ça toujours.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Madame Minister. Do not tell me you have had the time to practice your French _and_ run the country?”

She smiled. “Admittedly, not as much as I would like. But whatever little I have, it is due to my sister-in-law.” She turned to include Fleur, who seemed to radiate with golden light, as she always did. Hermione watched as the President exclaimed when he caught sight of Fleur and embraced her with what another English person might deem an obscene number of kisses to either cheek. Fleur beamed. They chatted quickly to one another in French. Linguistically, Hermione felt like she was standing on her tiptoes, hoping for and sometimes catching a phrase here and there. The President shot Hermione a guilty look and turned to engage her in the conversation again.

“How is it that so much of your family is so charming?” Fleur’s smile was blinding. Even though she was older than Hermione, Fleur giggled and slapped the President’s arm teasingly.

“You are the same flirt you always were,” Fleur’s rich, brown sugar voice had only become huskier with age. These days she sounded more like a jazz singer from one of those Muggle noir books that Ginny loved to read and Harry pretended to hate. It had taken her a long time for her to come around to Fleur, but now Hermione considered her sister-in-law to be one of the best people she knew.

“I will take that as a mark of my youth,” the President replied with a smile he thought was becoming as he clinked his glass with Fleur’s. Fleur laughed indulgently. When the President taking a sip, Fleur turned her head to Hermione and rolled her eyes. Hermione smiled into her own drink. Fleur could play the game better than anyone she knew. And that was why Hermione had invited her as a special guest.

Hermione smiled as warmly as she could. “Monsieur le Président, I believe that you never will age. After all, you hardly look a day over thirty.” This was not quite the truth but also not quite a stretch. 

“Ah, Madame, you rarely flatter me. So, I must believe that you want something from me.”

“Madame le Minister rarely flatters anyone. Therefore it is all the more worth having.” Fleur arched an eyebrow from behind the President’s head. She was right. The President could be a vain man but he was also a smart one. Hermione had heard the rumors about how exactly he had been able to achieve his current success. She would get nothing if she was too obvious.

“That is also true. She does not suffer fools. This I know well.”

“Now who is flattering whom?” Hermione shot the President a wry smile.

The President inclined his head to her. “Ah, well, you have caught me. Although,” he continued in an off-handed manner, “I find flattery between friends to be so much more enjoyable than speaking about such dull and tortured things such as matters of state.”

Hermione laughed internally. “Or, shall we say, tariffs.” She mock cheers him with her glass. He laughed and pretended to look caught. “I do not know about you, Madame, but I was...coached, I believe the word is, to discuss those vile terms with you tonight.”

“Oh, Mr. President, I cannot tell you how much I wish I could never speak about tariffs again.” Hermione replied a little more vehemently than the role called for. “And yet –”

“And yet!” The President mock pouted. “To speak about such things in a place of high art, such as this – the opera! Ah, it does not do the soul any good.”

“Perhaps not the soul,” Fleur chimed in. “Though, if done right, tariffs can benefit the body.”

“Indeed. Though, perhaps it benefits the body politic – and even lines some of pockets on those bodies –” His voice was a touch too harsh, too loud, and heads were starting to swivel towards him.

Hermione had seen him spiral like this before. It was not pleasant. She raised an eyebrow at Fleur and Fleur immediately moved to touch his arm softly. “You are right, Monsieur le Président. It is too ugly to be spoken of here,” she crooned. The President softened almost immediately.

“So, to, hopefully, never speaking about tariffs again,” Hermione smiled at him and raised her glass to Fleur and the President to clink glasses. “I live in hope,” The President chuckled grimly, and he leaned back his head to tip the liquid down his throat, Hermione and Fleur traded a meaningful look. Fleur looked exasperated but the look faded as quickly as it had come.  

The President did not notice a thing when he looked back at the two women who had put on their nicest smiles for him. He looked at Fleur and then at Hermione, chuckling softly.

“So beautiful. So charming. Quite like your daughter, I must say.” He gave Hermione a knowing smile that Hermione did not comprehend the meaning of.

Hermione supposed that it shouldn’t surprise her that the President of France was keeping an eye on Rose while she was at Beauxbatons. But with this dark look, she felt something like trepidation settle under her skin. She chose not to comment but let the President continue. Fleur’s eye communicated from under her half-raised eyelashes.

The President seemed remarkably calm as he said, “It was a wonderful surprise when my daughter – Céleste – brought her home during the summer break. Héloïse and I were quite charmed by her.” He smiled at her, showing all of his teeth.

“Mais oui,” Fleur chimed in, cutting Hermione a look that said too much and not enough. “Rose is the Minister’s daughter. How could she not be?”

“Well,” The President gestured with a shrug. “Céleste has rarely been so smitten.” The lights above them flashed in a series of staccato blinks. “Ah, well, we must speak about this later.” He held out his arms. “I believe that we are all seated in the same box. Therefore, it would give me no greater pleasure than to escort two such beautiful women to their seats.” Hermione’s smile did not quite reach her eyes as she accepted. She looked over the Minister’s head and attempted to catch Fleur’s. Fleur looked out of the very corner of her eye to catch Hermione’s eye and shook her golden hair subtly.

 _Huh_ , Hermione thought to herself. _What do they know that I don’t._

Hermione had never exactly been a fan of the opera. There was a level of pretension in the way that people treated opera that tested her limits even though she did love swooping melodies and mellifluous foreign languages. She should have been entranced by Gabrielle Delacour – who was leaving everything on the stage like she had come for blood – but her mind kept drifting back to Rose. _Why should the President make such a fuss over a friendship? Was this some kind of strategy against her?_ Hermione was famous – almost infamous at this point – for her friendships. Her own daughter becoming a good friend of a political ally’s daughter was not something that could be used against her. Hermione looked at the President from the corner of her eye. _What is he playing at?_ She attempted to shake the thought of one of her few international political allies somehow manipulating her Rose. But try as she might, she could not give her full attention to the stage.

She peeked over to Fleur. The stage lights make her porcelain skin glow like a moon. Though Fleur was a quarter Veela, she was still the most beautiful woman in the room. Hermione was also positive that the Veela blood meant that Fleur showed her age less than those wizards who were her age. But, Fleur was beginning to wrinkle. And Hermione knew she wore her age with pride. Hermione had watched person after person under estimate Fleur. She had been one of those people. And Fleur’s resilience and tenacity under pressure had significantly deepened Hermione’s respect for the other woman.

At the intermission, the two women caught each other up on their respective lives as the President insisted that he needed to speak to several other diplomats. Hermione let him go quite willingly. She was still uncertain of his intentions in mentioning her daughter and she was not particularly willing to push for more details. No, she needed to speak with Rose now.

She had a lovely time laughing with Fleur about all of the antics that happened at Gringotts. As usual, the men who worked under were not taking her seriously. They all presumed that Fleur had gotten has high as she had in the ranks due to her being both beautiful and married to the Head Curse Breaker of Gringotts. They all believed that. Until Fleur proved them wrong time and again.

“So, I left before the spell went into place.”

Hermione was in stitches laughing. “And what happened to him?”

“Well, he thought he knew better, so,” She sniffed. “The wall froze behind him and he was stuck in there.”

“But, Fleur, there was a dragon in that vault.”

“Yes, and dragons are very useful for protecting treasure and,” She grinned, showing her teeth in way that made Hermione want to take a step back. “Reminding certain men just who exactly trained that dragon.”  

“Fleur!” Hermione exclaimed with a shocked laugh. Being with Bill Weasley had changed her. And, these days, she seemed to have more of a distinctly Weasley devil-may-care air about her than what her former prim-and-proper Beauxbaton’s training had instilled in her.

Fleur rolled her eyes. “Please do not lecture me. I am very aware of what the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures mandates.”

Hermione almost passed a hand down her face before remembering how much makeup she was wearing. “Please just tell me, as your Minister, that no laws were broken.”

“No laws were broken,” Fleur insisted. Then she smiled wryly and lifted a shoulder. “But they may have been bent ever so slightly.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Hermione said with a warning in her voice.

“Yes, Madame Minister,” Fleur hid her smile in her drink. “So,” she abruptly changed the topic. “You know that Rose will most likely want to have Céleste meet you.”

“When? During the hols?”

“Most likely, yes.”

Hermione furrowed her brows and gave her sister-in-law a confused smile. “Rose is welcome to bring anyone she likes. She knows that.”

Fleur looked surprised at this. “That is wonderful.”

“Rose has brought her friends to our Christmas celebrations before. Surely you remember.”

Fleur made a noise in the back of her throat.

“There was – oh let me see if I remember – Amalia...Isabella – no, Lizabetta, then Leo, and then Asher – do you remember Asher? Accidentally set a cushion on fire, if I remember correctly. She was terribly embarrassed about it, poor thing. So nervous, though Merlin knows why.” Hermione shook her head as she looked around the room. She didn’t catch the look that Fleur was giving her. Then Hermione thought she saw the flash of a bright blonde head in the crowd and it made her heart lurch in her chest so she also missed Fleur’s dry response of “Who could forget?”  

Then the lights flashed manically once more and the blonde head dipped deeper into the crowd of people all rushing back to their seats. She smiled at Fleur who was staring at her. “Shall we?” Hermione said.

Eventually, Hermione was able to sink into the opera. Once she stopped fighting it and let her mind focus on it only, she found herself enjoying it tremendously. Gabrielle had an immense talent. It was not easy to play the famous part of the woman who was cursed to be a swan. At the climax of the play, Gabrielle’s lover was killed in a dramatic display of stage magic violence. Gabrielle, keening, turned to walk off of the front of the stage, where she stumbled, weeping, onto levitating silver lily pads. Though she was blind with tears, her feet continued to find step after step – each one lifting her higher above the crowd below. The lights from the stage dipped until the stage was black and all of the light was concentrated on Gabrielle. As Gabrielle climbed, she seemed to floated effortlessly through the infamously difficult arpeggios. Finally, the spotlight hit another figure. Her lover, back from the dead, was on a silver lily pad just slightly higher than she was. Gabrielle was ecstatic in her joy and the music reflected it. She reached out. Just as their fingers brushed, the man disappeared into a fine mist. He was just an Apparition.

Her grief now pitched at its feverish, uncontrollable height, Gabrielle swooned mid-note. She fell off of the lily pad. With nothing to live for, her body succumbed to the curse. As her human body fell, it transformed into the white swan. But the swan did not fly. Instead it sank into the inky black as the lights turned off with a snap.

There was a shocked silence. And then applause. And then whooping from the crowd when the lights turned back on to reveal Gabrielle and her actor playing her lover bowing from the safety of the stage. Hermione and Fleur were instantly on their feet.

Hermione looked into Fleur’s face. Tears were streaming down her face; the same face that shone with a look of impassioned pride. Hermione waved her wand by her side. Flowers, white tulips, appeared suddenly at Gabrielle’s feet. Fleur, still applauding madly, choked and looked at Hermione gratefully. Though it was tradition for the Minister to do so, Hermione had genuinely meant it. She grimaced as the spotlight hit her, but she did her duty and made a small show of applauding the actors instead of taking the attention for herself.

After the actors had taken their third or fourth bows, the President whispered to her that he would be slipping out. “But I hope,” he said with a wink, “that I have the opportunity to meet you and your family under less formal circumstances.”

“Indeed,” she replied, her brow furrowing again.

And then Godfrey was by her elbow again. She looked apologetically at Fleur. She reluctantly said good night to her sister-in-law and asked for Fleur to please communicate how masterful Gabrielle had been. And then she was being pulled away into the night.

 

She hadn’t wanted to return to the Minister’s House, but she had to. She had not packed enough clothes. And while the gown was certainly stunning, wearing it in another day’s worth of meetings was out of the question.

When she was in the corridor of the house, she pressed gratefully into the back of the door and then kicked off her heels with a clatter.

“‘Mione?” She heard him softly call to her from the kitchen.

She felt two things simultaneously: relief and fear. Relief because he – her husband, father of her children, the long time love – was here, he was safe, and he sounded sorry.

But her misgivings sunk into her bones.

But she couldn’t just stand there. He was expecting her. 

So she walked towards him like there was glass under her bare feet. He was sitting at the table, the only corner that was obscured by the corridor’s opening. It gave her the opportunity to assess. Her eyes darted as she took stock of the room. The counters were clean. There were no bottles on the floor and nothing had been smashed. Her heart was still pounding loudly as she surreptitiously took a breath and turned the corner.

“Hiya,” she said.

“ ‘lo,” he answered. His clothes were disheveled and there was an empty plate shoved out before him. His face looked pale and drawn. There were large dark circles under his eyes. In short, he looked like hell. A pain shot through her. His sad frown deepened when he saw her.

“You look gorgeous,” he said miserably. He blinked rapidly a few times and cleared his throat.

“Thanks. Opera tonight.”

“Right.”

In the silence that opened up like a void between them, Hermione’s exhaustion hit her full force. Of course the day had been long, but her exhaustion ran deep. Hermione felt like she could predict everything that was about to happen. Ronald’s apology that would always fall a little too short. Her always accepting it just to keep the peace. She felt gravity pulling her face ever downward. She turned, her gown swishing around her as she went for the liquor cabinet. She knew she should ask if he wanted any but she had no particular urge to see him drunk again.

“ ‘Mione, talk to me.”

 _There’s nothing to say_ , she thought but didn’t say. She grabbed a wine glass. With a flick of her wand, the cork shot out of the bottle. She poured with her other hand.

“Please don’t do this.”

“Do what, Ronald,” she sighed. She hesitated, thought better of it, and took a long drink.

“Please let’s talk,” his voice had a pleading edge to it.

“We are talking.”

“Don’t.”

“Fine.” She put the glass down a little too hard on the granite. He didn’t flinch. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Last night. ‘Mione, I shouldn’t’ve – I drank too much and I –”

Instead of looking at him, she watched the wine idly swirl with unfocused eyes.

“It’s not easy – being in your shadow. I don’t feel like the man I was. The man I could be. It’s not bloody easy being only the husband of the Minister.”

“Right.”

“You could have a bit more bloody sympathy.”

 _You knew what you were getting into. I never hid this. I never hid my ambitions. I didn’t make you into this_.

She sighed. _Keep the peace._

“I am sorry.” The words twisted out of her without her wanting them.

It should have been enough. But it never was. He continued in on her, demanding quietly and loudly for more of an apology than that. She started shaking and then the tears silently rolled down her cheeks as she said she was sorry time and again until a hard lump kept her from speaking.

Whatever love they used to have connected them like the thinnest thread of spider’s silk. In other relationships, maybe that would be enough to add to. Tenuous threads would be added to it until it became a golden rope that could withstand the strain. But not in this relationship. Instead, the thread shivered as Ronald stared at her with stony eyes, watching as Hermione ran a hand through her hair. Watched as she collected herself once more.

His eyes were hard but his voice was quiet as he said, “I didn’t want this.”

“Neither did I,” she stared at him with empty eyes of her own.

He stood up and crossed to her. Her arms were folded and guarded across her chest. “‘Mione, please.” His voice was soft and pleading. His arms were offered out to her. She wanted to resist. Something deep inside of her wanted to recoil from him. Instead of waiting for her to decide, he scooped her up into his long, freckled arms and crushed her to his chest. He smelled like lavender or something but it barely registered. She could barely breathe anyway but she didn’t push him away.

Which was all the invitation he needed to start kissing her down her neck. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into her skin. He didn’t meet her eyes. She let herself be kissed even though there was no spark, no excitement. Her arms felt heavy as she dragged her hands through his hair as she knew he liked it. When he kissed her, she kissed back, feeling, if it were possible, even emptier than before. And when he led her by the crook of her arm down the hallway to the bedroom, she let herself be pulled.

She didn’t really want it. But he said, “Come on. I said I was sorry.” And then he kissed her a few more times. “I said I was sorry.” And she felt herself taking off her gown.

She was not ready when he tried to slip inside of her. He said, “Merlin, ‘Mione,” in an exasperated tone that made her want to shrivel. He managed to get himself inside of her and every thrust hurt. She gasped inadvertently in response to the pain, and dug her fingernails into his back. Her whole body was tense. But it was easier than saying no. She heard him grunt in her ear like she was miles away. She turned her head away.

She stared at the middle distance, feeling the pain and the numbness build. It froze her insides like a sheet of ice. The same numbness she carried with her everywhere. She used to be afraid of it – of feeling nothing. But it was better than feeling anything, she supposed.

But – it wasn’t quite true, was it? She had felt something. One particular, unexpected person had made her feel so much in so little time. _You’re the most brilliant witch I’ve ever seen_ , a voice whispered into her ear. The ice began to crack. She squeezed her eyes tightly and thought about the blue-grey eyes that had stared at her hungrily. The smile that warmed her for the first time in a very long time. Or how languidly his fingers had moved as they unbuttoned first the cuff, and then the collar – or how those hands might reach for her – what they might do –

And she gasped in a wholly different way. She was almost surprised but the heat was rising from her and she felt close just from the thought –

But Ronald came first. Screwing up his face like he was in pain. Watching his face, she realized that he was barely even touching her. The only thing that connected them was their hips. When he caught his breath, he slipped out of her, gave her a perfunctory kiss on the side of her head, and strolled to the bathroom.

Laying there, she felt invisible. She barely noticed when the other side of the bed sagged as Ronald lay down. He didn’t touch her or even seem to notice that she hadn’t moved. Within ten minutes, he was asleep.  

She should move. She should move. She needed to move. _Keep the peace_ , she thought bitterly to herself, as she gingerly moved her aching body. She was starting to slip herself under the covers when she remembered what she had been thinking about during sex with Ronald. She felt like she should have been embarrassed or guilty for thinking about another man – especially that man. The same man that Ronald had only so recently accused her of having feelings for. But she didn’t.

Instead, she felt something within herself that she thought she had lost. It was like a voice miles away was roaring. But it was something. ( _What was she doing here?_ ) She slipped out of bed, as gently as she could so she wouldn’t wake him and face the questions. “ _Accio_ ,” she murmured, and a familiar beaded bag shot into her hand. She cast a silencing charm as she _accio_ ed her belongings into the very small bag, keeping a careful eye on every last shoe or necklace as it shrank and disappeared into the tiny bag’s mouth. She hadn’t quite been planning ahead, so the only thing left for her to wear was the gown that had been discarded on the floor. Reluctantly, she shimmied back into it.

Then she went to the bathroom and _accio_ ed all of her things from there too. She cleaned herself as the items whizzed into her bag. When she straightened, she caught a sight of herself in the mirror and grimaced. She waved her wand in front of her face and the make-up removed itself. She waved it a few more times so that the puffiness was gone and her hair returned to the neat do-up she had gone to the opera with.   

When she stood in her kitchen, she finally felt the resentment she should have felt hours ago and it made her enraged. She drank half of the bottle of wine that was still standing on the counter. She wanted to break things. She wanted to scream. She felt so impossibly tired. She felt like she had reached her limit. As she tilted her head back to drink the last of the wine she poured, she lost her balance slightly. She frowned at the floor accusingly. Then she looked at the bag. “So, we’re really going to do this, huh?” she asked it. The bag sagged a little lower on the counter. “Not with that attitude.” Hermione grumbled at it before she snatched it off of the counter.

Standing in the corridor, with her extendables bag in one hand and her heels in the other, she thought about how she might be seen by people she knew. _Fuck it_ , she thought.

Her exhaustion combined with the wine made her feel as if she were swimming through silk instead of walking. Her bare feet slapped against the tiles as she trudged towards her office. She tried to stick to the shadows as she ducked through the Atrium.

“Hermione?” A soft voice called to her.

And there he was. The man she had been thinking about.

He was standing there in a three piece suit. His tie was undone around his neck, and he had a folder under his arm. The low lights caught in his silver-gold hair. The second her eyes met his, he looked like he had been lit from the inside. Then he frowned. He crossed the short distance to her with a look of concern on his face. She wanted to shrink from him. She wanted to be held. She stood stock still.

“Are you alright?” He said with soft tenderness.

She shook her head, tears pricking her eyes again. _Any question but that._

“No? You’re not alright?”

“Please.” Her voice was raspy. “I can’t –” She was cut off by a choked sound from her own throat. She looked away quickly.

“Ok,” He nodded to her. “I – um – I saw you at the opera.”

She knew he was looking for any topic just to calm her down and gratitude flooded her.

“You,” his voice was raspy as he took a step forward. “You are so incredible. You must know that.” She looked up into his face with something like hope blossoming inside of her. He said her name to her, like he had been waiting years to say it. Her lips parted as she took in a shaky breath. He said it again and smiled at her warmly like he had never seen anyone like her.

Hardly daring to breathe, she extended her hand out to him. He caught it and she could feel the heat from his skin. She searched his eyes, her heart beating fast now.

“Who ever thought we would be here?” She said weakly. He laughed, then frowned, and looked deeply into her eyes. “I had hoped for so long that maybe –” His forehead wrinkled. “Please let me say how sorry I am, for everything.” His hand tightened around her own and her breath caught in her throat. “I wish I could apologize to you every day for how I treated you and –”

“So do.” She said with a small shrug.

“What?”

“Do.” She murmured, leaning in towards him.

“Hermione,” he said, almost laughing, “Oh, Merlin, I –” He rubbed a thumb down her cheek and she leaned into it as their faces pressed closer together and she could hear her heartbeat in her ears –

 

She woke up not quite knowing where she was. She blinked a few times and rubbed the blanket between her fingers. Then she stopped. She spread her fingers and pressed her hand into the bed. Its firmness seemed real under her hand. She blinked again but the numbness settled in her chest and insistently pressed into her. She must’ve fallen asleep in the Minister’s house. She hadn’t meant to. It was the middle of the night. She rolled over to look at the other side of the bed. Ronald was dead asleep and snoring.

She gingerly put her feet on the floor next to the bed. Something within her could not be ignored. She cast a silencing charm without even glancing at Ronald and whispered “ _Accio_.”

Before she left, she wrote a small note letting Ronald know that she would be leaving. If he needed her, he could speak to her through her aides but otherwise she would not be coming home again.

She crossed the halls of a very silent Ministry. She could not stop herself from looking hopefully at the spot where she had imagined him. It had felt so real. She passed a hand over her face and forced herself to think about other things.

Since it was about 2 AM, she, thankfully, did not run into anyone. She slipped into her office, and then into her bed with a grateful sigh.

 

The next morning, when the tap came at the door for her, she opened her eyes, saw the warm confines of her makeshift bedroom, and relief was the first thing she felt that day.

After her morning scone, tea, and debrief, she had another thirty minutes alone before her day of meetings began. Brushing the crumbs off her Muggle blazer, she sat down and wrote to her daughter. _If you have the time_ , she watched her hand write, _I’d like to talk about something rather important with you_. She would send the same to Hugo after seeing how Rose reacted to the news.

Later that afternoon, Hermione had her response. Rose was free later that evening. She quickly went through the usual hoops with her security team to open up the Floo network to the fireplace that was located in her office. Since Hermione was swamped with paperwork, as per usual, she found it better to stay in her office until she could talk to her daughter. That night it was Twycross who delivered a rather uninspired wrap to Hermione. The Minister still ate it all without noticing the taste. A while later, while Hermione was seriously frowning at the piece of legislation in front of her, she heard a soft pop. She ignored, as noise from the outside hallway often reached her ears, until she heard a rather loud cough. Her head shot up.

“Now, Minister,” her daughter’s, Rose’s, head teased from the fireplace, “Whatever will I do about these tariffs on cheese and champagne.”

Hermione faked a groan. “Not you too!”

Immediately, she felt a weight lift from her chest just seeing her daughter’s face. It had been months since they had last had the chance to speak. She searched Rose’s smiling face for any hint of significant change. Instinctively, Rose raised her hand to cover part of her face but Hermione had already seen it.

“Excuse me, young lady, but what exactly is that you are trying to hide?!”

“Oh come off it, Mum.”

That made Hermione a little more angry than it should. “Did you seriously get a Muggle piercing in your nose? And tell me,” she folded her arms in front of her chest, “what exactly do your employers think of this addition to your otherwise lovely face?”

Rose sighed. “No one seems to care, Mum. This is France! They’re not as stuffy as the English. Besides –” she huffed. “Teddy got one and Harry never made such a fuss about it.”

“Teddy can also change his appearance at will. Also, he’s going into an industry where such nonsense is tolerated.”

“It’s hardly tolerated. If you’re queer and you don’t have a piercing in the fashion world, you may as well be dead.”

“Rose! Teddy is not queer.”

“He absolutely is, Mum. Who do you think he brought home for Christmas last year? Angelique was not just a friend.”

Something finally clicked for Hermione and she decided to press it. “Speaking of,” She started off, giving her daughter a look from over her reading glasses. “I heard that you met the President of France.”

Rose looked shocked for a half-second but then gave her mother a bland look. “Yes, I did. It was just in passing.”

“Right. So. Going over to dinner to meet your girlfriend’s parents is just ‘in passing’ now, is it?”

Rose’s jaw dropped. “Who told you?” She whisper-screeched. Hermione was genuinely offended. “Who says I must be told things about my only daughter? Did you think I was so very blind?” She laughed in shock. “What did you tell poor Asher that made her so nervous that she set your Grandma Weasley’s cushion on fire? That I was so unaccepting?”

“No, Mum, it wasn’t you.” Rose winced and rubbed her face. She clearly had not wanted to get into this conversation with her mother when she had decided to Floo. Hermione frowned and took her glasses off. “What do you mean?”

Rose shifted uncomfortably. Hermione rode out the silence until Rose found it unbearable. Rose cleared her throat. “Well,” she started tentatively. “You know how Dad gets.”

Something hot and unpleasant dropped into Hermione’s stomach. “He was never –” Rose shrugged. “So I didn’t want to.” It was true. Hermione and Ronald had long known that Hugo was gay and since that time, Hugo’s relationship with his father had become tense – to put it mildly.

“I see,” Hermione said quite gravely. “Well,” she leaned forward in her chair so she could be closer to her daughter. “I’m glad that you are telling me now. But I wish you had told me a long time ago. I wouldn’t have –” Her mouth pursed in a thin line. “And I might have been able to save that cushion, too. Never heard the end of it from Molly.” She finished, now giving her daughter a sly look from the corner of her eye.

Rose rolled her eyes but laughed. Hermione turned serious again.

“I hope that Céleste knows that she is very welcome to spend the Christmas hols with us. Unless she also needs to be with her family?”

Rose nodded and filled her mother in on what hers and Céleste’s plans were for Christmas. Rose was thinking about renting an apartment with Céleste, since the Ministry quarters were not exactly home-y, she said. Hermione rather wondered if she was trying to shield her girlfriend from Ronald. She agreed with her daughter that it would be better for her to not be around her father and offered to pay for it when they were here. Rose looked surprised and tried to fight her until Hermione put her foot down. “I insist.” She tapped her finger on the desk in a random pattern. “Maybe Hugo can stay with you too? If it’s not too much of an inconvenience, naturally.” Rose gave her a significant look. “Of course, Mum.”

Then the conversation turned to how Rose had met Céleste (she was currently the assistant to the Potions Master at Beauxbatons) and then more generally to how teaching introductory Charms was going for Rose. Pretty soon, an hour had passed and Hermione had barely noticed. She had missed her daughter’s company achingly. Finally, Rose asked the question that Hermione had been dreading.

“Alright, Mum, what did you want to talk about?”  

Hermione sat very quietly, thinking of how best to phrase it.

“Mum?”

“Yes, love. I, um, well. There’s no good way to say it. I’m taking a break from your father.” Hermione took a peek at her daughter’s face. She looked floored. “You father and I...we’re just not good for each other any more. And I. I wanted to tell you because I won’t be living at home when you come back from Christmas.”

If Hermione was hoping for the support of her daughter, or for Rose to tell her she was making the right decision, she did not know her daughter as well as she thought.

“Merlin, Mum. You must be joking.” Rose said weakly. “I know Dad’s not – but – you were always so in love.”

“We were, when you were little. But, I’m afraid to say, it hasn’t lasted.” Hermione whispered the final words to her clenched hands. She was willing herself not to cry.

“I – Merlin.” Rose swore again and rubbed her face in her hands.

“Rosie? Please talk to me.”

“I’m sorry I –” Rose gave her a look like she had never met the woman in front of her before. “Sorry, Mum, I gotta – This is just –”

Hermione nodded and pursed her lips sadly. “I understand, love,” she said as she wiped away a silent tear. “It’s a lot. And maybe we should, um, talk about it more when you’re here.”

Rose looked thoroughly dazed now. “Right.” She replied, dully.  

“Besides, you probably need to go off and prepare for your course tomorrow.”

“Right.”

“I love you so much, Rosie. I’m sorry if this is a lot but I think it will be good for all of us. And I will always love you.”

“Right. Love you too. I should –”

And then Rose’s face disappeared from the fire. Hermione sat there, silent tears slipping down her face. Eventually, when she couldn’t breathe any more, she grabbed a kerchief and blew into it. “Well,” she said to no one. “That went well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please let me know what you think! Apologies for the delay but I am hoping to get the next chapter out very soon. i'm really pleased by it! Also, I don't speak French, so if you have a better way of saying that, please let me know.


	7. Ministry Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming & Christmas at the Ministry.

When Rose came back for the Christmas holidays, Hermione made sure that hers and  Céleste’s rented apartment was well out of the way of the paparazzi’s beaten track. She owled Hugo in advance to let him know that the option was open to him if he wanted it. She was not surprised when he accepted the offer, nor did she comment on it. Tentatively, she reached out to Rose as well, asking if she would like to introduce Céleste to the rest of the family. She offered possible times and places to meet, as determined by her security team and aides. She was surprised when Rose accepted the offer. She hoped that it meant that Rose had come around to her parents’ separation but she wouldn’t know until she saw Rose in person. 

To her surprise, Ronald did not fight Hermione’s leaving. While he proved difficult and petulant at every turn when Hermione needed to schedule something with him, he did not send her nasty letters nor try to embarrass her publicly. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. She often felt on guard, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Otherwise, she had settled into a routine that suited her. She thought that sleeping essentially in her office was a positive. She could always be close to work – but this in turn meant she rarely had a moment away. After two weeks of this pattern, she decided that she would begin to make the time. She even journeyed above ground (with a strong Notice-Me-Not around her and Godfrey by her side) to take a walk in the park now and then. It was one of these afternoons when the sharp winter light cast London in high relief that she rubbed her cold nose and realized that she was happy. She could feel the happiness like electricity humming under her skin. Once she felt it, she did not want to lose it ever again.

Slowly, she could feel herself coming back. She laughed a little more easily now, slept better, and took more confident steps. But, once she realized that she could feel again, there were days when all she could do was feel. And she felt too much. 

She decided to go back to her therapist to begin untangling her resentment, hurt, and anger for having her life and her love wasted by a man who did not appreciate her. Her therapist, who now slid into Hermione’s Ministry office with Cordelia’s help, said that it would be a long process to fully heal from what she called the long-term emotional and psychological abuse. But she promised that Hermione would heal. From then on, Hermione clung to that small hope. 

  


When just before she and Ronald met Rose, Céleste, and Hugo at a small gastropub in Kensington, the parents were in a heated row. “Just try to behave yourself,” Hermione had hissed to Ronald as she watched the three approach. “I am not the one who has done anything wrong here.” Ronald snarled. She shot him a particularly icy glare. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. By that time, the children were within hearing distance so Hermione changed her attitude. She caught her children up in a tight, warm hug and extended her hand to Céleste. Ronald awkwardly shook hands with the son he had not seen for six months and gave Rose a one-armed hug. Then they turned to go inside. 

Hermione could tell within the first ten minutes of meeting her why Rose had fallen for  Céleste. Céleste had all of the best qualities of her father: warmth, generosity, openness, savvy intelligence. When Céleste mentioned that she had brewed a felix felicis in five months and had modified it so that the person taking it did not experience the next day’s bout of deep depression, Hermione gathered that she had a rare talent. Ronald, naturally, was too busy glaring at his daughter’s hand in her girlfriend’s and was taking it out onto the chicken breast he had ordered. Hugo, when he wasn’t laughing and smiling at the easy banter that Céleste and Rose had, avoided his father’s eye contact. Hermione’s security team were scattered around the pub, with some in a tight ring around the family, and others dispersed to the far corners. They attempted to look as unassuming as possible, but more than one pub patron looked at a security Auror with suspicion. Céleste, to her credit, seemed to be entirely inured to the whole mad parade that was being the daughter of the head of state. 

Now and then, Hermione caught Rose’s eyes dart to her father and her face tighten. Once she saw Céleste’s hand squeeze Rose’s gently. Another time, Hermione saw a muscle in Céleste’s face flex after Ronald said something rather cutting to Hugo about how Hugo had failed to make the Quiddich team once more. But Hermione swiftly stepped in to say that Hugo was making them very proud with his academic achievements, and she earned a warm smile from Céleste. 

If Rose was hoping to please her father, she would not. When Céleste excused herself to push through the crowded bar to use the washroom, Ronald started in on Rose. He let his silverware go with a clatter. “What the bloody hell is this,” he started. 

“Lunch at a gastropub, Dad. What does it look like –” Hugo replied. 

“Don’t you bloody start.” Ronald shoved a finger in his direction. “Am I just supposed to accept this? No explanation. No consideration. Just bloody expected to be alright with my daughter engaged in god knows what kind of activities –” His face flushed unpleasantly at the thought. “With this bloody French brat –” 

“Dad!” Rose exclaimed right as Hermione said, wearily, “Ronald, please.” His lips formed a tight line and he attacked his chicken with renewed vigor.

“Personally, I think she’s lovely.” Hermione focused her attention on her daughter, but Rose didn’t hear her. She was glaring at her father, the heat rising in her cheeks. Hermione could read an angry Weasley from a mile away, and she almost wanted to duck behind a plate. She straightened her spine and reached out a hand to her daughter. “Rosie,” she said quietly. “Perhaps this is not the time –”  Then Rose fixed her glare on her mother sharply.

“It never is, is it.” Her voice was cold and flat.

Hermione sighed and retracted her hand. “No, love.” She cupped her hand in her cheek and looked at Hugo. He was studying the table. 

“So what is this, exactly,” Ronald kicked his chair out from under the table. “Is it a phase? Do I need to pretend to care that this is normal?”

Rose face fully flushed now but Hermione got there first. “That is quite enough.” She said in such a sharp tone that Ronald’s head snapped up to look at her. There was a brief look of guilt. “You will be kind to our daughter and her girlfriend. Otherwise I will have you forcibly taken from this pub.”

He looked genuinely shocked for a moment but then sneered at her. “You wouldn’t dare. The papers would love a scene.” 

She leaned in very close to his face and her tone turned deadly. “Try me.” She held his gaze until he looked away. Then she reached for a glass of water and looked at her children. Rose was starting at the table in shock while Hugo had a little look of bemused admiration on his face.

When Céleste returned to the table, she saw a sullen Ronald Weasley, a boisterous Hugo, a smiling Hermione, and a shaking Rose. She slipped her arm around Rose when she sat back on the bench she shared and ignored the strangled noise that came from her girlfriend’s father’s throat. Rose did not meet her eyes and Céleste looked at the rest of the table in brief confusion. Hermione could not say that she did not feel relieved when the luncheon was over without any more explosive derision from Ronald. Instead he was deathly silent, offering only a variety of grunts when questions were directed towards him. She was very glad to be with her children and she made a few plans to see them all (Céleste included) before the Ministry Christmas gala. Then they all shrugged their coats on and went out into the crisp air. 

Hermione had rather been hoping that their familial jaunt to the pub would not attract too much attention, but that hope was lost when a bright bulb exploded in her face. Godfrey was already in front of the Minister’s family with a few other Aurors, trying to hold the paparazzi back as they yelled questions at the Minister. 

“Minister, there are accusations that the proposed Werewolf Bill means fewer rights for regular wizards – How would you respond?” 

“Minister, give us details of the Ministry Christmas ball –” 

And then Rose and Céleste gave them something to squawk about when Rose turned to her girlfriend and landed a soft, chaste kiss on her lips. Then the bulbs really took off. Hermione glanced at Godfrey and saw a flash of annoyance on his face as the members of the paparazzi attempted to shove him out of the way. 

“Ok, you’ve made your point,” Ronald snapped at the teenage girls. “Let’s get out of here before they really start going.” 

One by one, they Disapparated. Hermione linked arms with Hugo to perform a side-along Disapparition. “Hugo, you must keep your mind clear, love.” She reminded him softly. Hugo looked down at her and grinned. “Don’t worry, Mum.” She wanted to talk more but she closed her mouth with a dissatisfied twist. Then, with a crack. They were gone. 

When their feet hit solid ground, Ronald and Rose were not looking at one another. Céleste had linked her arm through Rose’s to Disapparate and she was snuggled in close to her girlfriend. She was chattering happily, choosing to ignore Ronald’s icy silence.  _ Keep the peace_, Hermione thought darkly to herself. _ Isn’t it always a woman’s job_. 

“Well,” Hermione said, and all heads turned to her. “Thank you for the lovely lunch.” She could’ve sworn that she saw a little look of relief flit across Céleste’s face. Then they proceeded to say their goodbyes. 

When it was time for Hermione to say goodbye to Céleste, she wrapped her in a tight and warm hug – the same she gave to her children. She held the other woman for a long moment. When she stepped away, she touched Céleste’s arm and said, “Welcome to the family.” Rose encircled Céleste from behind and looked at her girlfriend with pride. “Thank you,” Céleste replied, with a bright smile. And then they all went their separate ways.

Hermione’s days before the Ministry Christmas gala fell into a new pattern: going throughout her days as the Minister, as seeing her children as much as she could, and managing Ronald’s temper. Her appointments with her therapist became slightly sporadic during this time but she knew that her therapist would understand. She had hoped that she would be able to help Maldrake and Cresswell with the details of the Christmas gala, but Maldrake assured her that she need not get involved. So she left it up to them.  

When she walked into the Atrium the night of the gala, she audibly gasped. Cordelia Cresswell had outdone herself. She looked exhausted but was glowing with pride as Minister Granger pulled her into a warm hug. “Oh, Cordelia, congratulations” she breathed. “It’s breathtaking.” 

Cresswell and Maldrake had somehow managed to give the ceiling of the Atrium the same effect that the Great Hall at Hogwarts had. It wasn’t exactly alike. Where the Hogwarts ceiling would reflect the passing weather, this ceiling simply shone with stars like diamonds. There were also golden orbs of various sizes that orbited around the space of the Atrium. Their light cast everyone and everything in a honeyed glow. 

Another half of the Atrium had been transfigured to look like a forest so that the centaurs, and other magical creatures that had been invited, would be made to feel at home. There were twinkling lights in these trees. Hermione was very happy with the addition as it transformed the stale air of the Ministry to smell like fresh pine needles. Casting her eyes around the room, there were at least five large Christmas trees that each had their own set of magicked decorations. Cordelia pointed back to the trees where Hermione could just make out faeries diving in and out of the branches, wrapping tinsel or – sometimes – rocketing a glass ornament to the ground. “We had to make a concession with the Department of Faerie Relations.” Cresswell rolled her eyes. “So they got their own tree.” She leaned in and whispered. “I would avoid it, if I were you.” 

The fountain at the center of the Atrium had been expanded so it was a large pool that had smaller golden orbs that flickered on the water. “There are portkeys at the bottom of the fountain so that the Merpeople can join and return home whenever they might like.” She nodded towards the forest. “Same for those coming from the forest.”  Hermione beamed at Cordelia for thinking of everything.

Trays of champagne floated without being held. The long tables that groaned with all kinds of food (turkey, hams, treacle tarts, black pudding) seemed to fill of their own accord. There were tables for the centaurs, Merpeople, and the other magical creatures that had been invited. Hermione was not positive if they would, so she looked at the overloaded tables with slight concern. It was a lot of food that would go to waste if they did not.  

Cresswell whispered to her, “We had a little help from the house elves in attendance.” Hermione nodded. House elves were particularly good at magic like this. She decided to worry about the excess later.

Hermione turned to Maldrake. “Congratulations to you, Maldrake,” she said, reaching to pull him into a hug he neither expected nor seemed to like. “Thank you, Minister.” He replied, attempting to sweeten his sour expression. 

“You look lovely, Madame Minister,” Cordelia said. “Thank you,” Hermione replied brightly. “It is nice to get all spiffed up now and then.” 

Hermione had asked Rose to buy her something from Paris but she had been a little unenthused when Rose had come home with this outfit. When had Hermione ever worn a jumpsuit? 

But once Hermione had put it on, her jaw had dropped at how good it looked and felt on her. It was a long sleeve dark green velvet jumpsuit. The bodice hugged her curves just right and the pant legs flared out fashionably. It had a deep v in the front that was sewn so it looked like it wrapped around Hermione’s waist. Its sleeves were tight down to her wrists. Her favorite part about this outfit were the art deco inspired gold suns that were on the back of her forearms. She did not remember a time where she was more enamored with a piece of clothing. She had decided to style her hair long, and it cascaded in curls down shoulders. She paired it all with a simple set of gold circle plate earrings and some retro gold heels she had bought for herself years before. Rose had convinced her to wear a dark red lipstick (“It’ll stay on while you eat, Mum,” she’d promised) and a bit more mascara than Hermione was used to wearing. All together, she looked and felt like a knockout. It had been quite some time since Hermione had felt confident and sexy. It thrilled her in a way and it scared her in another. She didn’t want to hear Ronald’s malicious voice in her ear saying,  _ But who are you wearing this for? _ Yet she did. 

She did think of someone but shoved that idea out of her mind.  _ It’s impossible _ .

_ No, this isn’t for any man. It’s for myself _ , she thought.  _ Myself. _ After applying the last coat of lipstick with a shaking hand, she thought,  _ alright _ , _ here we go _ .

Her aides welcomed all manner of magical creatures into the gala while Hermione made sure to talk to every head of department and every magical representative that she saw. She genuinely loved speaking to some of them. Others, like the Merpeople, she needed to have a translator on hand. But, everyone told her that they had appreciated the welcome and that they were having a lovely time. It was all she could ask for.

Ronald came in about an hour into the party. He gave her a perfunctory kiss on the side of her head, as previously discussed. He already looked like he was in a foul mood and he quickly skulked off to find a drink. 

When the Atrium had filled with enough bodies, Twycross handed her the speech she was to give. She had to soothe her shaking hands again as she stepped up to the middle of the floor of the Atrium. “ _ Sonorus _ ,” she pointed toward her throat. A hush fell over the room as the golden orbs came to float behind Hermione. She had never loved public speaking, but she had become inured to it at this point (though she could not stop her hands from shaking). She decided to keep it simple. 

“Happy Christmas to you all and warmest welcomes to the yearly Christmas gala. It gives me much pleasure to see so many familiar faces here. I have found that the best parties I have been to have been the ones were the remarks are brief and the champagne flows long,” This earned her a few laughs. “So, I will keep this quick. I would like to take the opportunity to thank each and every one of you for making this one of the best years that I have had at the Ministry. We have passed historical acts of legislation that seek to give us all a more equal stake in the rights which should naturally be ours. It would not have been possible if it were not for those who are in this room tonight. Your willingness to collaborate, vision, and drive have made our Wizarding community a stronger one. And we are all better for it. So, cheers to you and the hard work that you have done. You have my infinite thanks.” 

There was a general murmur as everyone raised their glasses and clinked with their neighbor. She caught Rose’s face in the crowd and tipped her glass towards her daughter. Rose’s face beamed with pride.

“So, now, let us get down to that serious business of enjoying ourselves!” Those around her laughed and applauded. She performed the  _ Quietus _ charm silently and moved to join the crowd once more. 

She had just finished speaking with head centaur of a particularly strong herd when she spotted the glint of silver blonde hair reflected softly under the warm light of a passing globe. Then the crowd parted under her eye. His head was tilted up and his eyes were scanning the room. The sight of him made her stomach do a funny flip.  _ Merlin, Granger _ . She grimaced.  _ It’s impossible. Get a grip _ . 

For one rare moment, she had at the advantage. Whereas she so often felt his eyes on her and she could not stare back at him, now, while he remained at a distance, she let herself consider him. She could not deny just how attractive he was. He was wearing a variegated dark grey and white suit that was randomly flecked with black. Underneath that, he wore a simple black turtleneck. He paired it with handsome dark brown leather shoes. On another man, it would have been too simple. But the suit had been perfectly tailored to Draco’s body. Forgetting herself, her eyes followed the breadth of his shoulders, and then down the tapered length of his torso. Sometimes she forgot how tall and broad he was. He rarely used it to his advantage. Unlike most men, he had only gotten handsomer as he had gotten older. It was like he had settled into his features. She swallowed, really looking at Draco perhaps for the first time. She saw that he had this look about him, especially in the face, like he had been made of cut glass. Everything about his face was angular: his jaw, his cheekbones, his nose, his eyebrows. The only space for curvature was in his lips. This was the feature she was staring at when his piercing blue eyes found hers. Immediately, her heart leapt to her throat. He stopped dead in his tracks when he finally spotted her.

As soon as their eyes met, she felt this inexplicable urge. It was like her body was responding to the pull of his. (One of her parents’ close friends had been a Muggle physicist. When she was young, he loved to tell her that he believed that Newton’s law of universal gravitation extended into love too. That in any relationship, there would be one person who held more gravitational weight and that other person would naturally be pulled into that force. But, he’d said, if it was a the perfect kind of relationship, two people who held the same kind of weight in space and time – two people who were entirely equal – would be attracted to one another based upon that gravitational weight without falling into the other’s orbit. The pull would be equal. There had always been a part of her that had wanted it to be true. And, Merlin’s beard, she could feel that pull.  _ But could he?_) 

She looked down, clenching her jaw, and feeling a wave of guilt course through her. She had been married for donkey’s years. She shouldn’t be having these thoughts or feelings. She shouldn’t feel like a young girl at the Yule Ball again; like she was just waiting for the one guy she really wanted to dance with to ask her. It was all too ridiculous.

He made his way towards her. She stayed where she was, though she relaxed her stance by shifting her weight onto her other foot, leaning back in space, and sticking a hand into her jumpsuit pocket. She had a sip of champagne and watched him approach from over the rim. As he walked over, she saw his eyes float over her body as they had the other day in her office.  _ Cheeky_. When he was right in front of her, she noted that the muscle in his jaw was flexed. So, she wasn’t the only one who was nervous. Something like recklessness rose up in her. Unconsciously, she smiled very slowly. It was then that she decided to make him work for it. 

“Happy Christmas, Lord Malfoy.” His back stiffened. 

“Happy Christmas, Madame Minister,” he inclined his head. And she tipped hers back at him. 

“That was a lovely speech.” 

She laughed. “Thank you. Of course, I think it could’ve been better –” 

“Naturally,” he shook his head and smiled, laughing slightly. He knew Hermione well enough to be very familiar with her streak of perfectionism.

“But I find it’s always better to be short and genuine rather than long and…”

“Obnoxious?” He offered. 

“Quite.” She smiled and looked behind him but Scorpius was not with there. “And where is your lovely son?” She asked with genuine curiosity. 

Draco lifted an eyebrow. “I believe he went to find your daughter, Rose.” 

“Ah,” Hermione said suddenly. “I hope he will be alright, then.” 

“Does my son have something to fear from your daughter?” Draco’s deep voice shifted into a more humorous tone. “Not from her, no. With her, yes.” Hermione grinned at him. “Rose has brought her girlfriend back with her from France to meet the family.” 

“Ah,” Draco smiled, and looked down as he stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m afraid that might be rather wounding for Scorpius.” He looked up at her with a small grin. 

“I’m sorry to hear it,” she said, genuinely, “And how long has your son been in love with Rosie?” 

Draco blinked rapidly and then shrugged one shoulder. “It’s hard to say, Madame Minister. I believe that he was struck by her ever since he spotted her at Platform 9 ¾. But it is hard to know whether the adolescent feelings will spark into something more lasting,” he looked at her with an unknowable expression. “I would hazard a guess that as soon as he came to know her, then he’s loved her since that time.” He gave her a soft, slow, and warm smile. 

Hermione’s grip on her champagne flute tightened. “I see. Then that is a shame.” 

“Yes,” he replied simply. “But, I have a feeling that any woman who is smart, brave, witty, and kind would easily find a place in his heart.” He shrugged again and looked into the crowd. “That’s how his mother was.”  

“Mm,” Hermione responded, looking at the floor suddenly and taking a sip of champagne. Then she thought for a moment. She was surprised when a thought hit her. “Oh, I may actually have someone he may want to meet, then.” She looked around the room. She quickly spotted her, and began to weave her way through the crowd. Draco continued to stay where he was, unsure whether to follow her. She glanced back at him. “Come on, then.” 

“You don’t need to do this, you know,” he laughed. “My son will not die of a broken heart just because your daughter is dating someone else.” 

“Ah, I see.” She laughed at him, softly, “Do you think I’m meddling?” 

“Perhaps a little,” he was smiling at her. 

“As Minister, I have so few opportunities to actually tackle a problem and solve it,” she explained, still making her way around people. “Anything that lands on my desk usually it takes three meetings, five committees, and convincing some twenty people to agree to its terms. And that,” she pointed at him and looking at him from the top of her eyes. “Is if they agree. Recently, someone had the mad idea of installing a new kind of water filtration system on the shared water fountain in the Auror office. Now mind you, there is only one fountain.” She smiled when she realized that she was making Draco laugh and shake his head. “And yet, I have had to attend seven meetings, rewrite the plans three times, and have spoken to the lowest Auror to the head of the department, a Mr. Harry Potter himself, just to get this passed. I’ve had budgetary meetings and architectural ones as well. Would you like to know when this all began?” 

“When?” Draco said, indulging her with a laugh because it prompted her to grin at him. 

“Two years ago. I have new grey hairs all because I would like my Aurors to drink safe and clean water. And it will be installed in two years time. I wish I were joking,” she said to his incredulous stare. “So, if I can fix one single thing, even if it means getting into a muddle in someone else’s personal life, then I would be overjoyed to do that.” 

Finally, she had found her. “Aurelia,” she said, placing a hand behind the astonished girl’s back. Aurelia looked absolutely divine in a gauzy, sky blue gown. Hermione noted with a smile that she had also chosen for her curls to cascade down her back. “I would very much like to introduce you to my good friend, Lord Draco Malfoy.” 

Draco gave her look that was somewhere between flattered, amused, and surprised.  _ Good friend?  _ His cocked eyebrow seemed to say. She rolled her eyes at him. 

“Lord Malfoy, this is Aurelia Shacklebolt. She’s one of our most recent Aurors, having just come to us after amassing a truly impressive number of NEWTs.”

“Oh, no – Madame Minister – really, that’s too much –” Aurelia demurred.

“Oh,” Draco interrupted, his warmth and surprise were genuine now. “If the Minister has said it, then it is sure to be true. Minister Granger herself broke a record when she collected her NEWTs. We were all terribly jealous, I can assure you, but she deserved the accolades more than anyone else. So, if Hermione thinks highly of you, then I do not doubt her for a moment.” Aurelia was visibly taken aback by the man’s somewhat overwhelming warmth and charm. Hermione smiled at the casual use of her first name and cocked her eyebrow at him. Something charged passed between them but they both quickly looked away with blank expressions on their faces. 

“But, Aurelia,” Hermione said, suddenly putting the pieces together. “If you just graduated from Hogwarts, then you must know Lord Malfoy’s son, Scorpius.”

Aurelia looked at them, her head shifting back and forth. “Yes, I do,” she said, blushing a little bit. “We were in different houses, but we had a good deal of classes together.” 

“Really?” Draco asked with genuine interest. “And which house were you in?” 

“Hufflepuff,” she said, looking askance as if expecting there to be a joke made at her expense. 

“I’ve always been impressed by Hufflepuffs. They seem to have the best qualities of the houses without being overblown.” Hermione said. Draco smiled and nodded as she spoke. “Personally, I asked the Sorting Hat to put me into Gryffindor, but there were times when I regretted it.” She caught a small look of surprise from Draco. “I never regretted meeting Harry, of course. He remains my best friend to this day. But, I could have done without some of the boisterous jockeying that goes on in the Gryffindor Common Room.” 

“Hm,” Draco said, grabbing a champagne glass for himself and Aurelia as it passed by. “I never knew that you requested Gryffindor.” She nodded, slightly wondering where he was going. Aurelia clearly did as well. She took a sip of champagne while glancing around for any possible means of escape. He smiled at Aurelia. “I also asked for my house. Slytherin. I was afraid that my father would –” he winced briefly at the memory of his father but it was gone as quickly as it came, “let’s just say, he would have been greatly displeased if I had gone in to any other house. There was a brief moment when the Sorting Hat suggested that I be in Gryffindor but I could not be moved.” He smiled at Aurelia and Hermione. 

“Well,” he shrugged. “Those days are gone. I have found that house differences do not mean much outside of Hogwarts.” He considered Aurelia for a moment. “You know, now that I think about it, I am sure that Scorpius would love to see a friend from Hogwarts. Would you mind joining me?” Aurelia gulped and looked at Hermione.  _ Help me _ , was clearly written on her face. Hermione instead said, brightly, “What a lovely idea!” and all hope disappeared from Aurelia’s face. 

As Draco left with Aurelia, she could hear him start to inquire about how she liked being an Auror, what the challenges were, and how she had become interested in the job. As Aurelia answered, Draco looked over his shoulder at Hermione. She raised her champagne flute to him with a smile. Just before his head turned back to attend to Aurelia, she could have sworn that he winked at her in reply. Before she could really stop herself, she couldn’t help but notice just how well his suit was tailored as he walked away. She caught herself and blushed.  _ For Merlin’s sake, Granger _ . 

She willed her blush to die down as she spotted Maldrake and Twycross coming up to speak with her. She wondered briefly if they might be dating. They were so often standing closely to one another and chatting in hushed and familiar tones. After solving the issue, she chit chatted with them about their holiday plans. Maldrake was off to see his family in Scotland. When Hermione asked Twycross, she said, “Oh, just hang about London, I suppose. I do love London at Christmas time.” And it should have been a nothing statement but for some reason Twycross’ eyes guiltily flicked away from Hermione’s. Soon, she ran out of things to talk about with her two aides, so she excused herself on the prospect of finding more champagne.

She craned her neck around looking for someone else to speak with. From a small distance away, she caught Ginny’s subtle wave. Hermione’s shoulders relaxed in relief. She was always happy to see her sister-in-law. Ginny was the closest thing she had to a female best friend. As she crossed the room to Ginny, Hermione switched out her empty champagne glass for a full one and grabbed an extra. It had been ages since Hermione had seen her. Now that Ginny had retired her broom, she had picked up a quill for the  _ Prophet _ . It was a grueling schedule, Hermione knew, and she could see the exhaustion in Ginny’s face. She gave Ginny a long and warm hug before handing her the champagne. 

“Alright, Gin?” She asked, smiling at her sister.

“Alright,” Ginny said, laughing with pleasure. “Oh, it’s so nice to see you, Hermione. That was the perfect speech and this outfit.” She shook her head, smiling, “Well, Merlin. You’ve been catching a lot of admiring looks.” 

“Have I?” Hermione’s shock was genuine. 

Ginny laughed, “Of course you have.”

“Well, all praise goes to Rose. She is the one who found it in Paris.” 

“Paris, ah,” Ginny replied with a smile in her eyes. “That’ll be it then.” 

Hermione linked her arm through Ginny’s. “How are you, then?” She asked sincerely. Ginny put her hand over Hermione’s. “Oh, fine.” She smiled a little tiredly. “It’s been a busy sporting season, and the adjustment to being in an office has been rather difficult – some of these people, honestly, Hermione, I swear they think they are international Aurors or something – so bloody secretive. As if I would want to steal their story about escaped Pygmy Puffs,” Ginny rolled her eyes. Hermione laughed and squeezed Ginny’s arm appreciatively. Ginny went on to tell her a little of the latest saga of office politics. Unfortunately, Hermione could readily believe it based on her own experiences at the Ministry. In return, Hermione told her a little of how difficult it had been to get this party launched, and how uncooperative Maldrake had been.

“Bloody perverse men. It’s always them, isn’t it?” Ginny shook her head. Hermione smiled to herself. It was so nice for her to have a woman to speak with who was not only funny, clever, and confident but who also understood how impossible things could be for women like her. Hermione never failed to feel that whatever she brought to Ginny, Ginny would always understand. 

“And how are you, then?” Ginny said, pressing her head against Hermione’s, tenderly, for a moment. 

“I – um – well.” Remembering what she had just thought about Ginny always understanding her, Hermione decided to open up to her only female friend.

“Gin,” she said, barely daring to breathe. She unlinked her arm from Ginny’s and stood to face her. She looked slightly over the other woman’s shoulder.  _ Now or never, Granger _ . She swallowed. Ginny didn’t press her to speak, which Hermione was grateful for. “I’ve been thinking of, well, for quite some time now – thinking that it would be best if I,” she inhaled a shuddering breath, “left Ronald.” She finished, as simply as she could. Ginny’s brows contracted and there was a small frown on her face. It made Hermione quite nervous so she sped through the rest, barely daring to look at her. “I’ve been living away from him for some time. We’ve tried. I’ve tried. We did therapy. The whole thing. But – he doesn’t want to change. And it’s getting worse.” She choked for a second. Hearing her own words out loud expressing that which she had tried desperately to keep bottled up, confronting these feelings now – Hermione could hardly keep from crying. “It’s so much worse, Ginny,” she finished with a horse whisper, a single escaped tear snaking down her cheek.  

Ginny gave her a long, sad look and took her hand. “Oh, Hermione.” The other woman’s voice was packed with her own grief. “I am so sorry.” She barked a laugh that surprised Hermione. “And I am so, so terribly angry.” Hermione caught sight of the angry tears that glinted in Ginny’s eyes. Hermione clenched her jaw, trying not to let any more tears fall. “From what I’ve seen and what Harry has told me, I can’t tell you that I’m surprised. But I had so hoped that he would do right by you.” Hermione almost smiled at seeing what she considered to be Ginny’s signature blazing, hard look come dark across her face . 

“So,” Hermione squeaked out, “you wouldn’t hate me?” 

Now Ginny was shocked. “Oh, love, no.” Ginny pulled her into a large hug. “No, no, nothing could do that.” Hermione choked on a sob. “You see,” Hermione said, “even before I married your brother, you’ve always been my sister and I would just be devastated –” Ginny gave a watery choke. “Me too, love, me too.” Ginny whispered back into her ear. 

They didn’t say anything else. They didn’t need to. 

When they broke apart, Ginny reached into her handbag and pulled out a handkerchief. “Oh, bless you,” Hermione said with a small, wet laugh. Ginny watched as Hermione dabbed at her makeup. Then she said, “You know Mum will hate you. Ron’s always been her favorite.” Hermione nodded. She would expect nothing less than guilt and shame from Molly Weasley. “But everyone else will understand. Even Dad, I’m afraid.” Then Hermione handed the kerchief to Ginny and watched as the other woman did the same. “I guess I’m surprised by that,” Hermione said. Ginny shrugged. “He’s long thought that you were too good for Ron. Most of us have. Maybe even Mum believes it, though I think she’d rather die than admit that he isn’t perfect.” 

“Well,” Hermione grumbled, reaching for her wand. “She’s not married to him now is she.”

Ginny paused and looked at her. “Exactly,” she said seriously. Hermione waved her wand wordlessly and both women’s red and puffy eyes appeared as if they had not just been crying. Ginny smiled at her, softly, and with no little love. 

Hermione then asked the question that she had been trying most to avoid. “And Harry?” 

Ginny’s eyebrows raised. She had clearly expected Hermione to have long had this conversation with Harry herself. While Hermione had desperately wanted to, she could never bring herself to do so. She and Harry had never really talked about feelings.  _ Maybe we should change that _ , she thought. “Harry will be fine.” Ginny answered in a very serious tone. “In fact, Ron has not been Harry’s best friend in a long time.” She looked at Hermione at the top of her eyes. “You and I will always be first in that regard,” she beamed at her husband and then looked back at Hermione, “but he’s found a rather surprising best mate in someone else.” Ginny took a sip of her champagne and motioned with her eyes for Hermione to look towards Harry. 

Hermione turned her body to see that, in the midst of a throng of people, Harry and Draco were laughing and chatting. Draco said something with a little wickedly humorous expression on his face and Harry was suddenly doubled over laughing, with one hand on Draco’s shoulder. Meanwhile, Draco leaned over, grinning, still speaking to Harry with a hand supporting Harry on his chest. Hermione could hear Harry’s laugh ring out anew at whatever fresh thing Draco had said to him. 

“Oh,” she said, quite taken aback. “For how long?”

Ginny considered her husband with a bemused look. “You know how these things are. Men.” Her eyes went wide with disbelief and she shook her head. “It’s been happening rather gradually but I believe for the past three or four years.” Remembering something, she turned to Hermione. “After the incident, Harry became more amenable to Scorpius and, well, it just naturally happened. I rather thought you knew. Harry told me that you encouraged it.” 

Hermione blinked and frowned, trying to remember her own words. She watched as Harry wiped away a tear with the flat of his hand and Draco leaned back, hands in pockets, giving Harry a warm look of friendship as he also caught his breath. Harry was shaking his head and talking. Draco laughed with his head tilted back. And then Harry smile turned sour with discomfort as Ronald walked up to the two of them. Hermione could tell just from Ronald’s back that he was jealous of not being involved. A look of guilt and consternation flitted across Harry’s face as his eyes flicked to Draco. Draco was still smiling as he greeted Ronald with a handshake. Then Hermione watched as Ronald said something that made Draco grimace and look askance. 

“Here we go,” Ginny said. Draco’s mouth pressed into a fine line. He nodded quickly at Ronald, clearly saying something about how it was good to see him but that he had spotted someone he needed to speak with. He clapped Harry’s shoulder fondly and the men smiled at each other. Harry frowned at Ronald’s mocking wave goodbye as Draco stalked off. Ginny sighed. “I suppose I’d better –” she shook her head and looked at Hermione with exhaustion on her face.

“Gin,” she said, catching her hand before Ginny left. “Can we have lunch sometime?” 

Ginny smiled. “Anytime you like.” And then, with a shared smile, Hermione let Ginny go. 

Hermione thought for a moment that she should have been the one to go over and handle Ronald. She could tell, just from the volume of Ronald’s voice that he’d already had a bit to drink. Harry could tell too. He shifted from foot to foot and looked quite relieved to see Ginny join him. But then, Hermione watched as Ginny put on her best face and both men relaxed. Hermione hated that Ginny had to do so, but she was endlessly grateful. 

Hermione stood and watched for a time before spotting Rose and  Céleste coming towards her. They were laughing together and it warmed Hermione to see her daughter so happy. She had noticed how much Rose had grown as a person. She’d been a difficult teenager – sullen, selfish, and headstrong – as so many were. But, even though she was struggling to adjust to this new family situation, Hermione could see Rose’s kindness, patience, and selflessness begin to shine through. She could not be prouder. 

As the three spoke, they attracted  the notice of Ginny, Ronald, and Harry. They drifted towards the women when they seemed to have nothing more to say to one another. While they spoke, Twycross and Maldrake hovered on the outside of this small circle, chatting amongst themselves. Harry also caught Draco’s eye and motioned him closer. The two laughed together as they finished their conversation from earlier. With Ronald’s eyes on her now, she tried not to look at Draco. But she was finding it very hard to keep her eyes from drifting towards him.

After Hermione inquired after Céleste’s parents, she seemed to remember something. Céleste’s lovely hazel eyes went wide. “Ah, yes, Madame Minister. Rose has told me that your parents were _les_ _non-magique_.” 

“Yes,” Hermione answered lightly, trying not to feel the familiar dull ache. “What else has Rose told you?” She smiled at  Céleste over the top of her champagne flute before taking a sip.

Céleste smiled shyly at Rose with a look of love in her eyes and then politely met Hermione’s again. “Not too much, just that your parents were in the dental profession – which has to do with feet, I believe?” 

Hermione chuckled. “Oh, no, that’s what the Muggle world calls a podiatrist. No, dental has to do with the teeth.” She smiled at  Céleste kindly.

“Ah,”  Céleste answered, blushing considerably. “That must be why you have such a spectacular set,” she amended quickly. 

Hermione was just about to thank her when Ronald guffawed next to her. “Spectacular was right. You should’ve seen ‘Mione when she was younger. She used to have the most enormous front teeth.”

Hermione cut her eyes at him. His cheeks were a warm red at this point and his voice had gone a notch too loud. “What? It’s not some bloody secret. We all remember – right, Draco?” 

Draco’s shoulder blades tensed and a look of pain crossed his face briefly. But Draco had always been a master of his emotions, and within an instant that look had changed into one of cold consideration directed at Ronald. “I remember that it was a difficult time for you, Hermione, as you were often teased for them.” Rose glanced at her mother in surprise. Hermione had told Rose that she had been made fun of as a child and Rose also knew that Draco had been the one to do it. Rose’s eyebrows were contracted. And now Draco was trying to save her mother’s face? “But,” Draco continued, “you grew out of it – as all children do.” Draco opened his mouth like he was about to change the topic by telling them about how he had grown out of some childish behavior when Ronald made a noise of disbelief and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. 

“Grew out of it?” He said mockingly. “Our Lord Malfoy here is the one who should be thanked for that.” Ronald looked around the small circle into the faces of the people. He always loved an audience and Hermione’s stomach turned. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just get more champa–” 

Ronald grabbed her shoulder tightly. Draco’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Ronald gave him a dark and hard grin. “Not now, love, we’re just having a chat with our dear friend Draco about the good ol’ days at Hogwarts. You remember, right, love? He and Harry got into some kind of spat over something – magical badges that said something-er-rather, and when Draco called you a mudblood, which he did all the time back then though –” he laughed rather cruelly, “that  _ certainly _ seems to have changed,” Ronald spat at the other man, his nails now biting into Hermione’s shoulder. She felt the pain but, clenching her jaw, she looked at the floor instead. She glanced up to see Draco’s face a mix of guilt, regret, and hatred.    

Ronald forged ahead. “Then my lovely wife,” He said, mockingly, “got hexed in the face by Lord Malfoy –”

“It was an accident,” Draco said with intensity, looking at Rose. Rose blinked and looked back at her mum with obvious consternation. 

“No, you meant it. You just meant it for Harry. And I suppose,” Ronald said, laughing now, “I should thank you because it was the bloody funniest thing I had ever seen. See all of the sudden her pearly front teeth, which were not small to begin with, shot right out of her mouth –"

Then, for some reason, Hermione caught sight of Twycross’ face. Her smile was frozen. In fact, there was a range of complicated emotions reflected in her face and eyes.  _ Funny_, Hermione thought,  _ It’s like she’s never seen him before or like_ – and all of the sudden, Hermione realized quite a few things all in the same moment.  _ Or like her heart was breaking_, she finished the thought. She felt like she had the air knocked out of her. Suddenly, so much behavior made sense to her.  _ I hope you’re happy, you bitch. You made me do that.  _ The words floated back to her. The jealousies, the lies, or how Ronald blamed her for what he did. Or the way he often smelled like perfume.   _Oh _ , was the only small thought that she could articulate. Then dully, she looked around at the rest of the people in the circle. Looking at them, her breath caught in her throat and she felt suddenly claustrophobic in the crush all of these people. Did they all know? 

Ronald was doubled over laughing now. “Oh, the look on your face!” He was wheezing. “You were so horrified. You must’ve thought it never would’ve been reversed. And then, do you remember what Professor Snape said? Don’t you remember, Harry?”

Harry made a noise in the back of his throat. He was looking just beyond Ron’s face and was clutching the stem of his wine glass very tightly. Ginny was looking at it warily like she was worried he would snap it at any second. Celeste was laughing rather awkwardly, unsure what to do but still hoping to please her girlfriend’s father. Maldrake was laughing at Ronald – not with him, Hermione noted – from the back of his hand. He whispered something into Twycross’ ear and she frowned. Rose, meanwhile, was looking at her mother in silent horror. 

Hermione met her eyes but couldn’t hold them. Rose had been away. All of what had happened with Ronald had happened either behind the closed doors in her childhood or when she had been away at school. But now she was older and there was no hiding anything. At nineteen, Rose was just beginning to understand that her idea of her father was very different than the reality of who he was. 

“Snape said he couldn’t see a difference!” Ronald was almost crying with laughter. Twycross closed her eyes briefly and looked like someone had knocked the breath out of her. Hermione could see her glass flute trembling in her hands. Maldrake was the only one who laughed. The rest either gave Ronald small, tight smiles or were stoney faced. The only person who expressed something completely different was Ginny. Her face was painted with open disgust with her brother’s behavior.

Ronald only noticed when he stopped laughing and had wiped the tears off his face. He looked around, demandingly. But no one would laugh. “Oh come off it.” Ronald was angry. “It’s funny.” He said with vehemence. 

“No, mate, it’s not,” Harry said quietly, giving his friend a hard stare.

They held it for a long moment. Hermione barely dared to breathe. It used to be that Harry was the only one who could put Ronald in his place. She was not so sure that he could any more. 

Ronald’s expression went dark. “Well, then I guess you had to be there.” He muttered accusatorially. Hermione let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Harry gave him a look that said that he  _ had _ been there and there was no excuse for Ronald’s behavior. There was a pause. Harry cleared his throat. “Come on, mate. Looks like you need another drink.” Harry crossed the circle, clasped Ronald on the shoulder and almost forcibly dragged him away. Ronald was clearly protesting but Harry had an iron grip on his arm and was speaking to him in a chastising tone.

After Ronald had been removed, the rest of the circle glanced surreptitiously at Hermione as if expecting her to explode. Instead, Hermione cleared her throat.  Céleste looked at her now with concern in her eyes. Her laughter completely vanished as she fully realized exactly what Rose’s parents’ dynamic was. 

“Luckily,” Hermione said, a little too brightly, finishing the story, “the hex was reversible. And Madame Pomfrey, who was the healer at Hogwarts at the time, gave me the option of making some slight modifications – which was much more preferable to me as my parents had been threatening to strap my teeth down with metal bits that summer – it’s how the Muggles do it,” she smiled thinly at  Céleste . 

Now it was  Céleste’s turn to pretend that everything was normal.

“That sounds rather barbaric,” she said in a small voice.  


Hermione made a motion with one hand. “I believe if Muggles had the option to do things our way, then they would in an instant. So, in a way,” she said, turning to Draco, “you did me a rather large favor, Lord Malfoy.”

Draco’s shoulders slumped at hearing Hermione use his official title. 

“I –” he coughed, to clear his throat, “I am so sorry –” 

“It’s quite alright, Draco.” She felt like she might be on the brink of crying but she pushed the feeling deep down into herself so she could feel nothing. “We none of us are the children we used to be.” She smiled at him with a warmth that did not extend to her eyes. Everyone’s expression was shocked but no one’s so much as Evelyn Twycross. She looked like she had never seen the Minister before. Evelyn began to blink rapidly. 

Ginny, meanwhile, gave Twycross a hard look, turned towards  Céleste to shut Twycross out of the conversation, and, then, bless her, began to ask  Céleste about herself. Not for the first time that night, Hermione suddenly felt a vast gratitude for her sister-in-law. Soon, Ginny had smoothed things over well enough that even Rose was tentatively laughing. Maldrake and Twycross stepped away to speak with other people. Draco lingered in the group, his eyes speaking the volumes to Hermione that he could not speak out loud. She gave him a small smile to let him know that she was not hurt but she would catch his eyes on her now and then. Hermione eventually did run out of champagne and she excused herself. With a light touch on Céleste’s arm and a promise that they would speak more later, Hermione turned into the fray of party.  

As she walked, she looked for red hair and found her husband speaking with two or three people she knew from the Ministry. Harry had opted to abandon him, she noticed. Quickly she understood that they, too, were either craning their necks to find other people to speak with or were shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.  _ Does everyone hate my husband? _ She thought with a shock. How hadn’t she noticed it before? 

When champagne drifted by, she switched out her glass for a full one. Soon, she was accosted by several Ministry diplomats looking to bend her ear. After she had answered their questions and laughed with them, she excused herself and continued to walk around the room. She wanted to catch up with Hugo again but she couldn’t spot him in the crowd. 

As she turned around in one spot looking for Hugo, she instead turned to find Draco Malfoy almost face-to-face with her. “Oh,” she said. All at once, her heartbeat picked up its pace but she also felt a dull sensation of something like grief. Ronald’s humiliation had hit her as deeply as he had meant it to. She felt like she was at the Yule Ball all over again. But this time, she wasn’t going to go off and cry in a corner like she had that night. She wasn’t going to let Ronald Weasley ruin another night for her.

At this stage in her life, she was extraordinarily good at pretending that she had no emotions. Her life at the Ministry and the volatile situation at home meant that she could easily fake to everyone – even Harry and Ginny, if she had to – that her husband hadn’t wounded her deeply. But, there was an inexplicable part of her that didn’t want to have to pretend with Draco. Although she had only just begun to be back within Draco Malfoy’s orbit, and he in hers, she could not deny that she felt a kinship to him. He was no longer her oldest enemy. He was proving himself to be a very good friend both to her and to those she cared about most. And she didn’t want to lie to him. But if she couldn’t pretend, then the hurt she was holding back would release like a torrent in her. And she couldn’t do that right now.

But hearing the story of their shared past had also dredged up a good deal of unpleasant memories for Hermione. _People don’t change unless they want to_ , she heard her therapist’s voice in her ear. _What if Draco really hadn’t? What if it was all for show_? His blue eyes were soft and searching. His arms were slightly outstretched as if all he wanted to do was to collect her in them _– and what if she let him? How would he feel – as firm and warm as she imagined? What would he smell like? –_ “Hermione,” he said, so softly. She inhaled sharply and looked away from him at once. She was sure everything she felt was painted across her face. But she couldn’t bring herself to care. 

He looked into her face, looking for any kind of sign. It seemed that he found it because he took a step closer to her. “Hermione, I want to apologize a thousand times for who I was and how I treated you –” Trembling, she met his gaze again. “I could offer you so many excuses about how I behaved and why.” He was so serious but his eyes shone with a kind of light that she had not seen in them before. “My upbringing, my family, the expectations put upon me…” He swallowed. “But the truth is that there is no excuse.” He looked down at where her hand was floating so close to his. His expression filled with a longing that he could not master. Then he dared to touch her, floating the back of single long forefinger down the back of her hand. She shivered as she took another sharp breath. 

There was such an intense expression on his face. That something that she did not dare name was filled in his eyes and the way he had touched her like he was could not believe the reality of her. “Hermione, I am so sorry I ever hurt you. I –” He hesitated and she could feel herself breathing erratically as if not daring to exhale too hard or else he would vanish. And then, she caught her husband looking at her from across the room. 

She took a pointed step back. His face flashed hurt and confusion. “I – I’ve seen your voting record.” Her voice was high and shaking. She looked up into a far corner of the ceiling, trying to get her body back under some kind of control. 

“What?” 

“I hope you don’t mind.” She followed up hastily. “And looked you up in the records of the  _ Prophet _ .”

“I see,” he said, clearly confused. She felt close to crying again. Her eyes flicked back to the corner of the room that Ronald was in. Ronald was saying something to Hugo. Hugo looked upset, like he was about to cry or punch his father in the face. Hermione watched, unsure if she should break off this conversation and save Hugo. But, selfishly, she didn’t want to be anywhere near Ronald. As if he could hear this uncomfortable truth, Ronald’s eyes flicked to Hermione. She clenched her jaw and stared at a tile in the floor. Draco’s body shifted in her field of vision as he turned to look where she had. She glanced up at him when he looked back. She could see traces of deep anger etched into his face. She continued speaking, shakily, while looking at the floor.

“You've voted for every single one of the laws I’ve passed. You’ve been choosing cases of all kinds of maligned creatures for the past ten years and winning them and –” She took a breath trying to steady herself. “When you inherited Malfoy Manor you dismissed all of the house elves that had been in your family’s employment for decades –” 

“Centuries,” he corrected gently. He had slid his hands into his trouser pockets and was giving his shoe a considering look. 

“Centuries?” She nodded and swallowed. Right, of course, she knew that. All house elves had their family line contracted to pureblood families. But she felt off-balance. She almost couldn’t comprehend it. It was all too much. “Right.” He looked at her expectantly. 

“Do you ever think that we did it all too fast?” She blurted out. “Marriage and kids and jobs and settling down.” She looked over at Rose, who was holding  Céleste’s hand and speaking to Scorpius, Albus, and Aurelia. They were all laughing and smiling. Scorpius looked a little crestfallen but also like he was happy for her. Now and then he would sneak a look at Aurelia. “I can’t help but look at Rose and think about myself – about all of us – when we were that age. We were so young, Draco,” she looked back at him with a pained expression. She had his full attention and he was nodding slowly. “Why did we do it?” She said with an anguished whisper.

It was a question she had asked herself many times, when she was awake deep in the night. It was her most private anxiety. She had never told Ronald. Not even Harry knew. And she had just shared this innermost part of herself with Draco Malfoy. She froze – once again expecting that which did not come.

He looked at her with quiet warmth. She couldn’t meet his eyes. “We wanted to bring some good into the world,” he said simply. “Scorpius is my good. There is so much that I regret,” he said, and Hermione’s eyes flicked to his left arm, “but being with Astoria and having Scorpius and seeing him become who he is today.” He turned his head to smile at his son. Scorpius looked back with obvious confusion. Draco looked back at Hermione with a smile. “I will never regret that. And I don’t think you would ever regret your children either.”

She let out a little watery laugh. “No,” she replied.

Draco took a casual glance over his shoulder. Ronald was staring at them again. And as Draco’s head drifted back to look at Hermione, he could see two rather green-looking Ministry workers working up to courage to speak with the Minister. Hermione smiled at them; took a deep, steadying breath; and compartmentalized her feelings again. He gave her a look which she, blankly, returned. Draco twisted his mouth to the side thoughtfully. Then he said, “I should probably be on my way, Minister. Thank you for the lovely party.” 

She nodded. “I am so pleased you could be here. And your son as well.” 

They didn’t look at each other. Draco shifted his body weight so he could reach into the inside breast pocket of his suit. He brought out a small rectangular card and handed it to her. It was his business card. As soon as it was in her hands, she could tell that it was printed on luxurious card stock that Hermione immediately wanted to rub her fingers over repeatedly. “If you should ever need me,” he said so that only she could hear. “This is where I can be found.” She felt confused for a moment. She knew how and where to find him. So, she wondered, what was he really saying?

Then he bowed to her and said, “Happy Christmas, Minister.”

She inclined her head. “Happy Christmas, Lord Malfoy.” Then their eyes locked for a long moment until he nodded left her to walk over to where Scorpius was still chatting with his friends. 

Although she dove head first into a conversation largely made up of chit chat with the two Ministry workers who mostly wanted just to speak with the Minister of Magic to tell their mates that they had done it, her eyes did flick over to where Draco was standing. He had joined the conversation with Rose, Céleste, Scorpius, Albus, Aurelia, and Hugo. She kept a watchful eye on them but was a little taken aback when he said something that made all of them genuinely laugh. Even Rose laughed apprehensively. When the conversation ended with the two green Ministry of Magic employees, Hermione walked around the party slipping in and out of conversations. However, no matter who she spoke to, her head tilted, as if attracted to a magnetic source, back to where Draco was with their respective children. Their body language was relaxed, happy even. Even Hugo, who did not seem to get along with older men, was leaning back and laughing with his whole body.

As Hermione walked to a new corner of the room, she watched as Hugo gave his usual look of longing at Albus. She saw how Hugo caught Ronald’s angry glance and Hugo’s body stiffened immediately. She also saw Draco catch this look between father and son. Draco considered the ground, and then let a few moments go by. He would take a peek into Hugo’s face, watching as the young man tried to fight back the obvious anger and shame that flitted across his face now and then. And then, to Hermione’s astonishment, she watched as Draco leaned into Hugo and put a hand in between her son’s shoulder blades. Immediately, Hermione’s defensive mothering instincts went off. But, Hugo did not recoil, nor did he seem like he needed saving. Instead, he nodded once at what Draco had said to him and looked up into Draco’s face, evidently surprised. Scorpius, who might have heard what his father said, turned his head to look at his father with a small smile. Draco then smiled warmly at Hugo, winked, and then motioned to the rest of the kids that he and his son needed to be off. 

The kids looked visibly disappointed but they relented. Rose, Hugo, and Albus hugged Scorpius goodbye. Aurelia looked awkward for a moment, and then quietly elated as Scorpius turned and hugged her as well. However it was when Rose reached for Draco and shook his hand that Hermione was floored. Hermione watched as Draco clasped an arm around his son and pulled him into a half hug as they walked. They bantered as they went towards the Floo chimneys, both seemingly happy to be in the other’s company. Hermione almost wanted to catch Draco’s eye but then she decided she didn’t. It was all a little too much for her to handle.

If she had known how long it would be until she saw him again, she may have lingered on him until he did turn around and give Draco her rare smile. But she didn’t know. So she turned her back to the disappearing Malfoys and headed towards her son. 

“Hugo,” she said, wrapping her arm around him. 

He jumped a little at the contact but easily relaxed into his mother’s affection. 

“You alright, love?”

“Alright, Mum.” He smiled at her, a little carefully. 

The two of them were standing a little outside of the rest of the children. Albus, Aurelia,  Céleste , and Rose were laughing about their first Apparition tests and how they had bungled it. Watching Rose, she remembered Rose’s words from when Rose told her about  Céleste . 

“You do know that I love you more than anything in this world. Well, same as Rose but more than your father.”  _ Definitely more than him _ , she thought while beaming up at her tall son. Hugo laughed and looked at her in confusion. Then he rolled his eyes. “Mum, have you had too much to drink?”

Hermione tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “No, cheeky,” she looked at him seriously. “I don’t always get the chance to say it and I should say it as often as I can.” Hugo smiled at her softly. She looked back at Albus. “ I love you no matter what and I never want you to feel that you have to hide.” 

Now Hugo looked at her in deep shock and confusion. He shook his head with his eyebrows raised wide. “What is it?” She asked. He laughed disbelievingly. “Well, you’d never believe it, but Lord Malfoy said just about the same thing to me just before he left. Do you have any of Uncle George’s Extendable Ears on you by chance?”

Hermione was too shocked to laugh. 

“He what?” 

He laughed incredulously, again. “He told me that no matter what happens or what horrible things people say to me that the people who know me will always love and respect me and I should never feel as if I should hide who I am.”  


_ Knock me over with a feather _ , she thought, again, twice in the span of a few weeks about Draco Malfoy.    

She searched her son’s eyes. She was always slightly relieved to see that there was more of her in her son’s face than his father. Sometimes she was so startled by how masculine he was. Even now, he smelled like aftershave and something forest-y and distinctly male. Her little boy was gone. And she was proud of the man in front of her. She cast her mind back to Draco, another man who was not at all the boy he was. “That was a very kind thing to say,” she said quietly.

Hugo nodded. “He didn’t have to,” he replied almost absent-mindedly as he watch Albus recount a story using exaggerated hand gestures. She smiled up at her son and shook her head.

“My dear, I will love you until the end of time. But,” she whispered conspiratorially, “I am afraid I must remind you that you are cousins. And first cousins to boot,” she poked a finger into Hugo’s chest. Hugo grimaced. 

“Is it that obvious?” He whispered back to his mum. She nodded sadly. 

“But, personally, I don’t think he’s good enough for you. You are so bloody clever, Hugo.” Hugo gave his mum a long stare. “You deserve to be with someone who is your equal. Someone who will support you when you ask for it or even when you don’t. And someone who will always be in your corner.”

He swallowed and nodded. “I will, Mum.” Then he whispered, “but only if you do the same.” 

She jolted out of her skin. “I –” she hesitated and looked at Rose. “What’re you talking about, love?”

Hugo didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he squeezed his mum in tight. “You deserve more.” He finally said in a quiet tone. He nodded at Rose. “We’ve been talking about it more. You can ask her yourself if you want.” 

“But I thought –”

“We love our Dad, of course. But, if this makes sense, we don’t particularly like him. And,” Hugo blinked suddenly and made a noise in his throat. “I don’t believe he’ll change.” 

Sadness pierced Hermione. It was one thing to think it, secretly and quietly, for herself and it was something else entirely to hear it from her child. Hermione put her head on her son’s shoulder. Suddenly she was exhausted to her bones. She desperately wished she could go to sleep right then and there. She had thought that this would be a fun, little, innocuous party where everyone would have a bit to drink and pull some party crackers.  _ It’s turned into too bloody much _ , she thought. And, cutting her eyes to where Ronald was standing and swaying in one place, there was more to be done.  


“Love,” she said to her son. “I need to have a chat with your father. I’d rather you didn’t hear it.” And what she meant was,  _ I don’t know what will happen but I want you as far away as you can get _ . “Are you alright staying with Rose and  Céleste still?”

Hugo gave her another sideways hug. “ ‘Course I am, Mum.” Then he gave her a sobering look. “Promise me you’ll be ok?” Hugo looked scared for her and that scared her – not for herself but what it meant about him and Rose. She had always tried so hard to keep them both from seeing how volatile their father could be. But she should have known that they couldn’t always be kept safe. She couldn’t always be there. How much had she missed?

God, she wanted to weep. Or scream. Or sleep. She touched his face. “I’ll be fine, love. Don’t you worry about me.”

Hugo hesitated for a moment and then kissed his mum on her forehead. She squeezed him tightly back. “I think you might suggest that you’d be off,” Hermione said up to her son’s face. “It’s getting rather late.” Hugo looked down at his mother as if considering something profound. Then he nodded and kissed her forehead again. “Alright. Night, Mum.”

“Love you,” she whispered and hugged him tightly. 

He hummed. “Love you too, Mum. See you soon?” 

“Yes,” she promised. “Soon.” 


	8. The Bonds that Break; The Bonds that Tie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione strikes a deal.

About an hour before the end of the party, she turned to Maldrake. She whispered in his ear, “Could you have him removed, please?” Maldrake frowned like he thought it wasn’t his job. Then there was a shout from the corner of the room where Hermione’s eyes were trained. Ronald’s own eyes were unfocused and he seemed to be having trouble standing. 

Hermione took a step closer to his ear, “He’s completely gone. The Minister of Transport is minutes away from getting shouted at. I need someone with a highly developed sense of discretion.” She hissed. “And that person is you.”

Maldrake didn’t budge. He didn’t meet her eyes either. “Surely the security team could –”

“I am asking you. I would be,” she said through gritted teeth, watching Ronald’s drink slop around in his hand. “Very grateful if you handled this situation with as minimal fuss as possible.”

Maldrake huffed. Hermione’s eyebrows raised. He finally looked at her. There must’ve been something deadly on her face because he finally relented. 

“Yes, Minister.” His shoulders were bunched under his suit jacket as he walked away. Hermione watched him with hawk-like intensity as he very quietly drew Ronald away from the bunch. Ronald, luckily, was too pissed to understand the tactic behind this and wrapped an arm around the smaller man’s shoulders. He then started jovially recounting whatever anecdote he had been telling the others as he was escorted out.

Few people moved out of the way as Ronald unsteadily barrelled through. Those who did muttered under their breath and laughed behind their hands when they did. Once or twice did she feel eyes upon her. While continuing another conversation, she strategically turned her back and she pretended not to see those people.

She had to get through the rest of the night as the Minister. And the Minister always left last.

As she stood at by the chimneys for people to exit, her eye caught the label of the her particularly favorite brand of firewhiskey sitting innocuously a few feet away. As much as she wanted to, she could not follow Ronald’s example.

She shuffled her weight onto her other aching foot, hoping so very much that these would be the last people to leave. She’d survived this surprisingly taxing evening mostly in one piece though her head was spinning from the exhaustion, she could feel bits of mascara in her left eye, and had a dried stain on her front from where she spilled aioli.  

The Minister plastered on a fake smile to say good night to Doge. His blue eyes communicated a flurry of questions that she blatantly ignored.

"Well, Minister, this was certainly an evening.”

She couldn’t do it. “Indeed. Happy Christmas. I do hope that you have a lovely New Year, Doge.” Then she extended her hand to the next person.

He wasn’t the only one who wanted to remark on her husband’s behavior. Some, unfortunately, got farther than he did. The Minister smiled and simpered and ignored all of the various comments. They ranged from the awkward (“Well, erherm, I do say – well! He certainly can pack it away, eh?”) to the covertly nasty (“How wonderful it must be to have a husband who is always so  _ determined _ to be in...such high spirits.”).

She let these comments roll off of her. What she couldn’t shake was her exhaustion. Hermione was half asleep when a woman with a short salt-and-pepper bob stopped in front of her. It took a moment for her to place that distinctive nose.

“Lady Parkinson,” she tentatively reached out a hand which was received. Pansy had a handshake that was barely there. Her hand angled upward and she pressed with only the lightest touch – as if she were already disgusted and would much rather not touch you at all. The feeling, Hermione felt privately, was entirely mutual. She was ready for a snide comment about her husband before it came.

“Minister, this was quite a party.” Pansy inclined her head slightly and smirked.  

“I’m very glad to see you here.”

Pansy’s eyebrow twitched at that one. “I was quite sorry to see your husband. He has always been an issue.”

Hermione’s own left eyebrow quirked now.

Pansy continued. “My own, unfortunately, late husband” she said, not sounding sorry in the slightest about Graham Montague’s passing, “shared many proclivities as your own husband.” Her lips tightened in a thin line. “I cannot say I miss them.”

Hermione hummed. “Then I hope he had more positive qualities and that you remember him for that.”

Pansy barked a laugh. It did not seem natural to her because they both looked surprised at the noise. 

“I’m afraid not.” Then Pansy gave her a long, piercing stare that made Hermione want to shift in her shoes. Eventually, Pansy’s mouth opened with a snap. Again, the expression on her face registered as if she were surprised or angry with herself for saying so much. “There are rumors. About you.”

“Excuse me –”

Hermione was immediately filled with dread, though she tried to mask it. Pansy studied her with an almost detached iciness. “They say you are living apart from your husband. That you have been for some time. That he has been having an extra marital affair. For some years now.” Hermione’s shoulders hunched. Pansy blinked. “They also say that you’ve been quite taken by someone else.”

“That’s such unfounded bull–” She stopped herself, her lips pursed and angry.

Pansy looked positively bored. “Right.”

She took a step closer to the Minister. “It’ll only get worse from here,” she said in a low voice. “Scandal can take everything. Even those things you didn’t know you had.” Pansy’s eyes drifted to Twycross, who seemed to be leaning ever so slightly closer to the Minister. “Just look at Draco.” She said so that only Hermione could hear. Hermione felt a small jolt through her body. Then the two women shared a significant look.  

Then Pansy took a significant step back. Her face was back to a blank neutral of unimpressed haughtiness. “Happy Christmas, Minister.”

“Happy Christmas, Lady Parkinson.”

And then Hermione heard Pansy’s sharp stilettos click away into the night.

 

It was very early in the morning when Hermione was released. She trundled down the Ministry halls with her usual guard crew around her. As she walked, Hermione held a glass of whiskey in one hand and her heels in another. They were all too tired to talk. Hermione in particular wasn’t in the mood. If Godfrey had maybe been paying more attention to her, he might have thought to himself that the Minister strode with a certain kind of purpose he hadn’t seen in some time. Instead of going back to the Ministry house, she asked to stop by her office. They did not say their good nights, as they so often did here now. Instead they waited for her. And when she emerged, the only difference Godfrey noted was the book under her arm. 

Ten minutes later, she closed the Ministry home’s door with a quiet snap. She was grateful for the merciful silence that met her. But her jaw muscles tightened. She put the book and glass down on the kitchen table softly, and put her shoes next to a chair. Barefoot, she padded down the hallway to the bedroom. She tried as hard as she could to make no noise as she walked towards the bedroom though her velvet cuffs brushed over the floor as her feet made gentle slapping sounds. 

She was a few feet from the bedroom door when she heard his snores. Immediately, her shoulders relaxed and her jaw unclenched. She padded, with as much softness as before, back to the kitchen. Now she really revelled in the silence. On her way back, she stopped in the living room to pick up her reading glasses, a pad of paper, and a quill. She put those, too, on the kitchen table, then reached for the glass she’d effectively stolen from the Ministry Christmas, and poured herself another large drink.

And, though worn as she was, she sat back at the table, opened the book to where she had placemarked months ago (and had since read and re-read this short passage) and began to write her terms down on the paper next to her.

She woke to the sound of the tap running into a glass. She quickly registered that she’d fallen asleep with her head on the kitchen table, her finger marking the place in the book, and with a huge crick in her neck. A brief memory flitted through her mind of waking up like this much the same at Hogwarts during finals. After all, what had she been doing but cramming.

Blinking bleary eyes, she thought it must’ve been way too early in the morning. The air had that shimmering, ethereal before-dawn quality. Ronald was standing by the oven in only his boxers, looking at her solemnly. He was holding the glass with unexpected gravitas.

“You coming to bed then,” his voice had that I-just-woke-up roughness to it.

“I’m fine here.” She watched his jaw clench as the heat rose in his cheeks.

“Right.”

Neither of them moved. Hermione’s wand was on the table. Ronald’s, for some reason, was in his other hand.   

“Why don’t you have a seat,” she said slowly.

"Do we have something to discuss?”

“Well,” she took her finger out from the middle of the book and let the pages drop with a thud. “How much do you remember of tonight?”

He scoffed, turned away, then turned back to give her a disgusted look. “All of it,” he spat at her.

“Good,” she answered calmly. “Then you won’t mind if I ask you a few questions, then.”

“It’s the middle of the fucking night –”

“I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

“It’s – what is it – three twenty two in the fucking morning –”

“I’m aware.”

“And you want to have a bloody sit and chat, do you –”

“No time like the present.”

He stared at her. She motioned with the flat of her hand to the chair across from her at the table.

“Like I said,” she raised the almost-empty glass to her lips. “It can’t wait.” She set the glass down and smiled icily. He continued to give her a hard, dark stare but she refused to be cowed. Then he huffed. He bend down and rifled in the liquor cabinet. She thought he was making his feelings known by intentionally making a racket. Eventually, he emerged with a bottle of something dark amber in his hand. He took a tumbler for himself and trudged unhappily to the table. Hermione continued to sit as still as a statue. The only things that moved were her eyes. She felt a kind of quiet strength in her – a restrained power – and it kept her calm.

He slammed the bottle down with unnecessary force, keeping his eyes focused on her. She didn’t flinch. Instead she blinked, waited for a beat, and grabbed it for herself. She gave herself a healthy pour.

“So,” she said, fixing him with a hard look. “I think we should begin with the fact that I’m not coming back. This will be my last night sharing a house with you again. I think you know that.”

“You’ve already holed up with him then–”

“I’ve told you, Ronald. I’m not sleeping with anyone.”

“That’s not what it looked like tonight. Your eyes were all over him.”

She snorted. She traced the lip of her glass while cutting a look deep into him.

“What?” He snapped.

“You have some fucking gall to talk to me like that.” 

“What’re you on about.”

“Twycross.” He blinked, looking startled for a second, then his eyes turned to slits. “You’ve been fucking her for months.”

“You have no proof.”

“Didn’t need it. She told me herself.”

“Liar.”

Hermione sipped her whiskey.

“I need this to be perfectly clear between us. I’m leaving you. Not because I’ve fucked someone else –”  _ you’ve already done that work _ , she thought “–but because I can’t stay here. With you. This marriage ended years ago. It’s time we be realistic.”

“ ‘Mione, please don’t. It didn’t – She doesn’t – ” He rubbed his face with his hands.

“Right.”

“No – she never –” He let his hands drop heavily on the table. “She never meant anything. I never loved her. I only – ” A sob broke his voice. “I’ve only ever loved you.” 

Hermione had seen the movies. Where the woman throws her arms around the man after he declares his love for her only. No matter what he did, no matter how many times she had been hurt. That woman’s face would break out in joyous rapture and forgive everything instantly. Like her heart had truly been touched.

Hermione sat there and felt nothing. She almost wanted to. She felt like there was some small part that was telling her: throw your arms around him, say it will be okay, take him back. But she sat there, feeling almost foolish at how much nothing she felt. Tears were streaming down his face and he was babbling – saying all the things people say in those movies.

“ ‘Mione you are the love of my life. Please. Please don’t leave. We have so much – this life? Our family?” He stared at her in horror. “You would walk out on all of that?”

“Because you already did.” Her own voice surprised her with its weary intonation. “Do you expect me to believe she was the only one?”

He sputtered, his face going flush from the neck up.

“Well, that doesn’t matter,” she muttered. She took a last sip of the whiskey. When she moved to put the glass down, it fell farther and harder than she intended. She frowned at it. She slid her hand over the table, and felt the world careen suddenly to the right. She swore in her head. She’d been too upset. She hadn’t been paying attention to how much exactly she’d had.

Without giving anything away, she got up steadily. He was glaring at a spot in the table, face red, and breathing hard. She carefully measured her steps to the faucet– 

Something crashed behind her – something like a table – and a bolt of red shot by her head.

She swore and turned hard.

He was breathing like an ox. “You.” His eyes were red and his face shone from his tears. She caught the hateful look in his eye. “You are not leaving.”

Even though she had enough whiskey to make her unsteady enough on her feet that she needed to take a step back, she squared her shoulders and stared him down. “Ronald.” She almost smiled. “You don’t want to do this.”

His head tilted and his voice shook in his anger. “You forget, my dear.” He spat. “Your wand is on the table.”

She really did smile now. “No, Ronald,” she whispered, as the lights flickered above them. “You have quite forgotten who exactly your wife is –”

And then the room went pitch black.

_ "Lumos maxima! _ ” He shouted. The light shot out of his wand but the blackness of the night swallowed it. Yelling, he shot some more red bolts into the suffocating, inky blackness that wrapped around him into the spot where she was. But they didn’t land. They didn’t even bounce back like they would have with a shield charm. He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t even hear her.

Holding his wand high above his head, he tried the lighting charm again. His wand sputtered and flashed. The dark seemed to extinguish it as easily as a child blowing out a candle. He was breathing hard. The impenetrable dark seemed to snake down his throat and into his lungs. He started coughing – lung-hacking coughs that wracked his body. He was choking.

He was drowning.

Deprived of sight, but starting to see spots, he heard the scrape of a chair and then felt it hit the back of his legs. They crumpled easily and he fell back hard. He felt the familiar bonds of Hermione’s particular brand of  _ petrificus totlalis _ –where the body became tight enough to be paralyzed but not tight enough to choke.

Then the dark parted like a knife through fabric. The weak light of the pre-dawn haloed around Hermione. She wasn’t where Ron had thought she would be at all. She was leaned – almost casually – against a counter. 

Hermione was staring into the dark. Her head was light and she knew that she was at that dangerous point of being beyond exhaustion. As she had performed the spells, she could feel his panic, his pain, his fear as the dark had threatened to overtake him. It had taken a considerable amount of energy to control it. It had meant marshalling her emotions. It could have been so easy to unleash her anger – as Harry had done in that bathroom all of those years ago. When Harry had lost control, a young man was left with a hole in his chest, bleeding out in puddles of water. No, she wasn’t going to leave a man on the floor choking and gasping. As much as that man might deserve it. But she had been close. She had been too close. She had tried to block it out but she was shaken to her core. She passed a hand over her face.

She remembered what Mad-Eye had said to them – all of those years ago in his Defence Against the Dark Arts class about a very particular spell – “ _ you have to mean it _ .”

And she almost had.

She took a single shaky breath and reached for the water she had poured for herself while Ronald had been shooting spells at her. She finished the full glass in a single gulp. When she put it back onto the granite counter, a single crystalline sound rang out. She heard a muffled sound like Ronald was trying to break the bonds she had put him in. She tilted her head to the side and closed her eyes. She searched inside of herself. The book had said that she needed a reserve of magic within herself; otherwise, it would be too much of a risk. She could lose herself inside of the spell. She could lose both of them.

She was not at the height of her power, she was deeply aware of that. But maybe there was enough.

“Ronald,” her voice was husky. “I am leaving. You can’t do anything to stop me.”

She took steps towards him, and as she did, the light followed her and the darkness closed behind her. “I think you can see now,” she said, very quietly, “that we are not good for each other. I want to be released. And I think you do too.” She crouched close enough to him that he could look into her eyes, but not close enough that he could touch her. From here, she could see the deep terror in his eyes. Silent tears were streaming down his face again.

“Now,” she said slowly, “All I want to do is talk.” She looked deep into his eyes again. She wasn’t sure what he saw there, but he could not hold her gaze. “Please.” He made a noise in the back of his throat.

“Ok, I’ll going to release these bonds if you promise to put your wand down. Does that sound fair?”

He made another noise.

“Right.” Slowly, wordlessly, she lifted the bonds off of him. As the pressure released, he took loud, gasping breaths. He didn’t say anything but the wand clattered out of his hand and she watched it fall. She reached and shoved it away. It skittered away into the dark. His arms were long and loose like the fight had been drained out of them.

Hermione pulled up another chair as they quietly began to talk. It took them a long time to come to an agreement, but eventually, Ronald passed a hand through his hair. “Yes,” he said, his voice listless. “Then we’ll both be free.” She looked at him.

“Is it fair?”

“All things considered. Fair enough. But,” He held up a hand. “I get to keep this flat.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Until the end of the term?”

“Yes, until then.”

She looked at him coldly. “Then I will need to ask for discretion.”

He rested the back of his head on the top of the chair. “I would want that too.”

“So, we’re agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Pass me the book, please.”

He did so, silently. She summoned both of their wands to their hands. She told him quietly what to do and what to say. He did so.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, fatigue creeping into her voice. She summoned a small paring knife from the butcher’s block in the corner of the counter. As it flew through the air, she could see it’s silver point gleam in the soft light that permeated the dark.

When it was in her hand, she gazed directly into his eyes. “Are you ready?” She asked softly. She was looking for any hint of trepidation, fear, or anger. But his eyes were clear. His shoulders sagged and she could see the lines in his face. Now, her heart went out to him. The man sitting in front of her wasn’t the boy she had grown up with, he wasn’t even the man she married, or the father of her children. He was just a man whose life was at a crossroads. She felt for him but it didn’t sway her.

She considered the flesh of her palm. Before she could think, she watched herself slide the knife down a long line in her palm. It almost looked like a lover running a finger down it. The illusion was broken when her bright dark blood immediately bubbled up. She clenched her teeth through the pain. She handed the knife to Ronald, handle first. He blinked and stared at her hand.

A long minute went by. She felt her hot blood pool in her hand but she waited. He gulped and took the blade from her. He hissed when the blade bit into his hand. She noticed that the incision was a little shorter than her own. She didn’t comment. She looked at the book and they said the necessary words as their blood met.

A golden light chased the darkness away as Hermione reiterated the terms. Ronald confirmed, adding his terms that they had agreed to. Hermione verbalized her assent. Together, they ended the spell. From their joined blood, two small crystals rose. Hermione took hers. It glowed bright gold in her hand. She stared at it. It seemed so small and fragile in her hand but she could feel a certain heat as it pressed into her palm. She had rarely come across an object that had felt so alive. The only things she had ever held that had radiated this type of power had been dark, evil objects.  _ But this wasn’t _ –

She stood up faster than her body wanted and dots appeared in her vision. She walked to the sink and washed the knife. From the magicked window, she could see the glow of the sunrise as one of the longest nights of her life came to an end.

“So, this is it?” His weary voice floated across the expanse of the kitchen.

“I suppose so,” she answered quietly.

She could hear him sniff but her eyes stayed dry.

She watched as reds faded into oranges that melted into pinks and purples. A deep and impenetrable calm fill her. The sky went clear under her gaze. She couldn’t help but think that it would be a lovely day.

 

Later, the grief would pierce through the numbness. 

They divorced quietly, with few resentments, a few months after the children left to go back to their respective schools. Rose and Hugo were aware. Neither seemed particularly overjoyed about considering  – what Hermione was sure was their idea of – their parents’ true love dying. Her spirits were lifted when Rose wrote her mother a very touching little note to voice her support. Hermione looked at it often.

No, when Hermione sobbed into her bed, it wasn’t because she missed Ronald. It wasn’t because she regretted anything. Instead, she felt that she was mourning the loss of all of her hopes for the future: her hopes of him changing, of her being able to fix everything, for them to be well and truly and finally happy as a family. But that was gone. Hermione could not help but feel its loss deep within her.

And still, she had to keep going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! A friend has been teasing me recently that this has been angst central but I am ready to lean into the fluff. I hope you are too! 
> 
> I so appreciate all of your encouragements! It has been such a joy to see that you are as invested as I am in this story. I hope you all love this new chapter and I look forward to your thoughts! 
> 
> Much love!


	9. Renewed Bonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione watches Draco in action and makes a choice.

_ Crack. _ She could see the last dregs of the sunset over the horizon when she Apparated. The gravel was suddenly under her boots with a crunch and there was the smell of freshly cut grass. She inhaled deeply, a specific kind of calm entering her bones. The Manor, all white limestone, refracted the very last rays of light. From the windows, her skin caught the golden glow of candles lit within the house. Her coat was buttoned up to the top of her neck but she clutched it closer to her as the gravel announced her arrival as she strode towards the large oak doors. Her eyes sought his figure through the sheer curtains. When she was several feet away from the door, she caught a glimpse of him at his desk. He was facing away from her, quill in one hand, and one long hand on an open book next to him. Once at the doors, she gave her signature knock – the one most Muggle borns must have known.  _ Shave and a haircut.  _

  


She stood back from the door and chewed her lip. She wrapped her arms more tightly around her. Snow was expected early tomorrow morning. Every breath she drew was like a pleasant stab in her lungs. She could not wait until snow fell with all its cleansing cold. She closed her eyes for a moment, allowed herself to feel her exhaustion and her deep wish that the crip, clear cold whiteness of it could wash away all of her recent past. Bury it. Cover it so she would not have to see it ever again. Then the door opened sharply and warm ochre light enveloped her.

And there he was. Standing in a forest green button down that was unbuttoned just below the dip between his collarbones. He opened the door with a single shoulder hanging off of his white cable knit sweater. His blonde hair was sticking up at the end where his hand had so recently run though it. He blinked at her owlishly under the tortoiseshell, then took off his reading glasses. He shrugged up his cardigan but it didn’t stop her eyes from skimming the collarbone that peeked out nor from noticing that there was some chest hair peeking out from under his done button. Breathlessly, she met his gaze. 

  


He looked surprised to see her. He didn’t speak but looked into her eyes searchingly, his mouth in a thin line. There was a palpable tension between their bodies, like a fisherman tugging on a line. She opened her hand and looked down at it. “It’s over.” Her voice was soft as she looked back up into his eyes, gauging his reaction. His own eyes went wide. If it had been Ron, he would’ve given her a triumphant smirk. But Draco didn’t. His brows contracted. He stepped closer to her and slid a large hand onto her lower back. “Come in,” he said. His hand was warm and real against her cold back. “It’s cold out.” His deep voice rumbled in a murmur. As he led her in, she could hear his breath come to him hard, and she searched his face in ernest. All she could really focus on where his eyes. There was a soft quality to them. As usual, he was looking at her like he could see into her, like he was excited to know every inch of her mind. Then his gaze drifted briefly down to glance at her lips. He looked back up at her.  _ Not just my mind, then _ . When they were in the hall, his hand slid off of her reluctantly. He moved so that he was standing in front of her. They shared a long look. She became suddenly aware of her breath, and his, moving almost in tandem. They both know what it meant that she was there, having done what she had just did. 

  


“Can I take your coat?” He breathed. His eyes grey searched hers, then jumped past to skim her jaw only to settle on her lips again. Finally, his piercing eyes met hers. “Yes,” she breathed in response. With her nod, he slowly unbuttoned her grey, felted wool coat. And then he slid behind her and there was a terrible moment where his hands, large and warm, skimmed her shoulders, relieving her of the weight – and then were gone – walking towards the large hall closet.  _ Merlin,  _ she thought, not for the first time,  _ he moves like a fucking panther _ . He could have magicked it. He could have just flung it in a nearby chair. But he didn’t. It was him sliding the coat hanger through the shoulders of her only expensive coat. He cared about her and he wanted to show her, she realized. She felt like the pit of her stomach fell to the floor. 

  


But she could not help but stand and watch as he placed the coat on its rack in a single smooth motion. Then he seemed to glide back towards her, his eyes only seemed to see her. “Come,” he said, picking up her hand and rubbed his thumb over the joints of her fingers. He touched her with enough pressure to let her know his feelings but without hurting her. He wanted her to know, she realized, with a sudden skip in her heartbeat. He moved to lead her into the next door but she stayed where she was. Instead, she pulled him to her. His blue-grey eyes were trained on hers. She caught the scent of him, like fresh parchment and newly cut grass. She almost laughed to herself. If only he knew how absolutely overwhelming he was, how he filled all of her senses until he was the only thing she could ever possibly focus on. She smiled at his confused look. She took a decisive step forward. Her fingers traced under his jaw. She leaned in. Then, her lips met his as gravity itself seemed to fall away from her. 

  


It had been four months since she made the blood pact with Ronald, and four months since she had seen Draco, when that silver–blond entered her life again. Or, rather, until she entered his. 

  


Clearwater was the one who brought it to her attention. She placed the  _ Prophet _ on Hermione’s desk one morning. It was a typical Ministry morning – back-to-back meetings. She hadn’t heard from Rose or Hugo for weeks now. She often thought of writing a note but found, at the end of the day, she was too exhausted to even pick up a quill. As busy as she was, she could find a small kernel of happiness within herself. She didn’t feel particularly lonely – except maybe in the dead of the night when she woke up after a stress dream with her arm outstretched to where Ronald might have been. But there was always a palpable sense of relief when he wasn’t. Instead she was starting to wonder how it might feel to wake up with someone else. 

  


And it was this someone else whom she was surreptitiously scanning the crowds of people that she walked through to get to the next meeting. This someone else who’s blonde head she only saw out of the corners of her eyes. Who had only come to her once in a dream. And what had he done there? Nothing. Yet, thinking about this, she felt a blush starting to creep up to her cheeks. He had been sitting on a table in a black turtleneck and sharp, skinny black jeans. One of his feet was on the floor, and the other was hanging in the air. His body was relaxed and he was smiling. He reached out one long hand to her and she felt herself grasp it. His hand was pleasantly warm and his grip comforted her. He watched as his own thumb traced over the back of her hand. Then his head tilted back up to her. The warmth of his smile, she could see, extended into his eyes and he was looking at her with an expression that she had not seen in such a long time. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears. With his free hand, he reached up to her. The back of his fingers stroked along her jaw. He grinned and laughed a little to himself. Then, with a look knowing and yet trepidatious, his chin lifted and his nose brushed hers as he leaned in to – and she woke up. Even this memory made her heart beat faster.  _ But it doesn’t matter _ , she thought.  _ I have many more pressing issues than knowing what Draco Malfoy’s lips might feel like _ . 

  


Clearwater’s finger tapped on a headline and Hermione came back to herself. “Did you see this?” She asked urgently. “I had no idea that it was going to court so soon.” Hermione pushed her reading glasses up on the bridge of her nose. The newspaper crackled in her hands. Her brows contracted. “And this is today?” Clearwater nodded. Still frowning at the paper, Hermione got up from her desk and crossed to door. She looked out but neither of her aides were there. (Against her better judgement, she had been advised to dismiss Twycross some months ago. So she had. It had not been a nice or easy conversation with neither Evelyn nor with Ronald.) She went back to her desk and wrote a quick note. With one look, the paper folded itself into a little crane. With another, it was zooming out of the open door. 

  


“Well,” Hermione said to Penelope, with a glance over her glasses, “It seems that my schedule has just cleared.” Clearwater raised her eyebrows at Hermione’s small smile and then returned it. “This trial could be perfect timing,” she said a little breathlessly. “Especially when we were hoping to raise this issue at the next Wizengamot.” 

  


Hermione nodded. She was already steps ahead of Penelope in her own private plan.  _ Yes, that would work. But it would depend on how he did today.  _ After all, she needed to know that he truly cared before putting her full Ministerial weight behind him. She had been staring absently at the picture of the defendant looking scared, irritated, and nervous in turns on the front page of the  _ Prophet.  _ “So, Clearwater,” She reached for her mug of tea and looked at Penelope over the rim of her glasses. “What else do we know?” 

  


Thirty minutes after the trial had begun, Hermione slipped into the back of the court. She hadn’t wanted to be recognized, so she’d used a little bit of her emergency Polyjuice Potion. She had a flask of it hidden in her slightly oversized robes. Penelope Clearwater, a few seats ahead of her, turned her head ever so slightly to catch Hermione’s eye. Hermione inclined her head briefly and then looked ahead blankly, as she imagined Cordelia might. She had cleared it with Cordelia in the hour before and had given her aide the rest of the day off. After all, Cordelia Cresswell would still  _ technically _ be at work. 

  


Hermione pulled a notebook out from under a robe pocket and brought her Ever-Inking quill to the page. Each lawyer was making their opening remarks and Draco was about halfway through his. It had been enough time that she had forgotten about the physical reality of him. He took up height and space in the room in his navy brushed wool suit and crisp white button up. Through the throngs of bodies, she could see his brown leather dress shoes and her stomach contracted. The reality of him put her in a panic. His large feet; the way he was stalking around the courtroom like a large, contained cat; and the way his hands were pushed into the pockets of his suit pants. She swore, silently, to herself. It was all so ridiculous and yet she could feel her pulse quicken in her grip. There was a terrible feeling in her stomach and she wanted to bolt from the room. But, she stayed where she was, eyes glued to him.

  


“My client,” he said, turning to gesture with a long arm towards the defendant in the box, “should not have been treated with such abject derision. She has been subjected to countless hours of mental, physical, and emotional abuse – and for what? That which she could not help.” He had taken a breath to scan the courtroom. The courtroom felt breathless to Hermione as Draco stood there, tall and confident. His head, slightly inclined towards the defendant, and his mouth gathered in a tight frown as he finished this thought. Then he took a minute to look out into the jury box, and then into the crowd. His usually piercing eyes were filled with a depth she had not seen before. Someone in the room awkwardly coughed and shifted in their seat but it didn’t break the hold he had. Briefly, his eyes met hers. A bolt of terror ran through her. But then his eyes continued on as he spoke again. “Who here can say that they have had a perfect life?” He smiled as people laughed, almost uncomfortably. “None of us, I would wager. Things have happened that you wished would not, or people left you whom you hoped would be with you forever.” He cleared his throat. “Who here can say that they have been able to control every aspect of their lives?” He paced the floor in long, confident strides. “Now imagine having even less control: over your physical body, over your magic – even though you fight every day, in every moment, to keep it.” 

  


Hermione’s eyes unglued for a moment and refixed themselves on the defendant. She was small even for house elves. Her bones looked frail and her body seemed to curve dramatically within herself. There were times when her magic would flare around her, like electricity caught in an orb, and then would suddenly contract back within herself. When this would happen, the house elf would struggle for a moment and then the magic would be sucked back into her body. It was clear to Hermione that though this was a very old habit and one that took a toll. “As established earlier, Ceely, the house elf, was attached to the noble line of the Selwyn House. The Selwyn House,”  Draco indicated his head towards the man sitting next to the other lawyer, “is one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Centuries ago, they, like many other Pureblood families, entered into a most sacred bonding ceremony with the line of house elves that currently serve under them. It was a bond that stipulated that the house elves would protect the noble line – back when dragon attacks and the like were much more common –” This comment got a brief laugh from the jury box. Draco smiled briefly, though it did not reach his eyes, and he touched his jaw thoughtfully. “And the noble family promised that no harm would come to the house elf line. They would be given a good home. But that has not proven to be true.” 

  


A blade of anger flashed through Hermione. She glared at the back of the head of Selwyn. “Ceely was punished by this family for decades for not answering their call quickly enough, for dropping trivial items, for being unable to perform her magic in a timely manner. She wanted to serve them better but she was born as she is. Now, there has been an abominable lack of attention to house elf health. Since her bones are brittle and susceptible to fracture, the doctors at St. Mungos believe that Ceely has a version of Pycnodysostosis, or, as it is most commonly known as, Toulouse-Lautrec Syndrome. It has not only affected her bones but also seems to have affected her magical powers as well.”  He turned to address the jury box. “Now, during the course of this trial, I will be discussing the issues of abuse – both inflicted on her by those she had hoped would hold up their end of the bargain her family had made with this noble lineage centuries ago in order to protect her and by those within the medical practice.” 

  


Hermione had not expected that second half. Ahead of her, Penelope’s back straightened suddenly. It was something that they had both discussed with regards to pushing for more house elf rights. She and Penelope had been planning to work on wages for house elves, better working conditions, clearer legal rights. They both knew about how the medical community reacted to house elves but it had been something that they had not thought they would be able to pass into law at this time.  _ Perhaps we could now, _ Hermione thought. 

  


“Ceely is proof of countless acts of medical malpractice that speaks to a larger systemic problem. Her bones have only ever been partially healed by the doctors who have seen her. In some cases, she received worse splints. Since there seems to be a prevailing opinion in the medical community that house elves do not feel as much pain as human wizards do, there have been doctors that have operated on her without supplying any kind of anaesthetic. We will be providing images of this malpractice. I cannot lie to you,” he came in closer to the jury box, his voice mirroring his depth of feeling. “The images are distressing. But, we need to find the strength to look upon someone – a person – with compassion for the wrongs they have endured so that we can ensure a better future for those who will follow in her footsteps.” His voice was quieter now. “We have the chance to right many wrongs done to our fellow magical beings – to those people who helped raise more than a few of us.” Hermione, watching the expressions flit across the jury’s respective faces, saw that more than half of them looked away in shock, embarrassment, or pain. Hermione’s eyes, almost without wanting to, drifted back towards Draco. 

  


“Let us hope,” he said, extremely quietly and seriously now, “that we can pay these house elves back for all of the good that they have done us. It is not just what they deserve – it is their right.” He let these words hang in the air for a long moment before turning slightly and inclining his head to the judge. He walked back to his seat with long strides. As he walked back, he looked back out into the audience for a moment. Meanwhile, Hermione felt absolutely struck. He had spoken with so much passion and conviction. She had rarely heard any argument spoken with so much self-assurance and eloquence. She could not have argued better herself.   And this made her suddenly felt so much less lonely and something, like hope, began to bloom within her.  His eyes caught hers. His head half-cocked quizzically but then Draco smiled ever so briefly as the judge announced that there would be a fifteen minute recess. Hermione looked down at her blank page, blinking. Her breath was a little faster than normal. She capped her quill with a shaking hand. 

  


With a jolt, she realized that she hadn’t even been paying any attention to how much time had passed.  _ The Polyjuice Potion. It must almost be time _ . Before waiting for Penelope, and without looking up to meet the eyes of the only person in the room which whom she wanted most to speak to, she slipped into the throng of people who were heading towards the door. She wanted to put as much distance as she could between herself and Draco. He had unsettled her. He had made her want more than she had dared expected to want before. She could not even think about it without feeling something like reckless joy. She tried hard to tamp it down but then she remembered what he had said and how he had said it. She ducked her head as she walked as a grin broke out on her face.  

  


She felt a pressure on her arm and turned to see Clearwater panting a little with the effort to keep up with her. “Come on,” she said, “let’s go back to my office.” Clearwater could see the ends of the Minister’s hair begin to morph back into her famous brown curls and nodded. 

  


Hermione asked that Clearwater stay on the outside of the door while she awkwardly transitioned back into her own body. Once they were both in Hermione’s office, they very quickly determined that it would behoove them to work with Draco on the creation of a new law that Hermione would present to the Wizengamot. It had actually been Clearwater’s idea. Hermione had been taken aback when Penelope first suggested it. “No, I’m sure we could hammer something out on our own that would do just as well,” she said, hoping to be contradicted. “No,” Clearwater argued. “I would be willing to work with Malfoy based upon what he said today but I also think it would greatly benefit us to be seen to work across the aisle with a member of the Pureblood community to pass legislation that directly effects the inner workings of their own homes.” Clearwater leaned forward in her chair. “Minister, this is going to be a law that will be deeply personal for most of those on our court of law. It is likely that this case will be heard in front of that court once it progresses beyond this stage of the law. Why not hammer these issues home with the very same person, who is not only from a Pureblood line, but who is also closest to the issue currently?” 

  


Hermione smiled at her friend. “I can’t argue with that.” She cupped her cheek thoughtfully. “But we can’t do anything at the moment. He hasn’t even won the case, yet.” With her free hand, she tapped a finger on her desk top. “We have to see how it all plays out before making a move. But,” she relented, seeing that her friend was about to interrupt her. “We can begin to plan a strategy if he does.” Clearwater smiled and nodded. “Yes, Minister.” 

  


The case seemed to drag on for ages, in Hermione’s eyes. When she could, and when she had the Polyjuice Potion handy, she would sneak into the courtroom to watch how it was progressing. Every time she did, Draco somehow managed to know it was her – though she came in as Cordelia, Penelope, and, once, Aurelia. He would always catch her eye and give her the smallest, warmest smile. 

  


The more she watched him, the more she was impressed. He treated his client with immense kindness, in the courtroom and out of it. In the courtroom, his arguments were passionate and precise. She had also heard through the grapevine that while the court was deliberating on a decision, Draco had convinced his company to not only pay for Ceely’s housing and also for whatever medical expenses she might have incurred. She could not help but think about these kindnesses late at night, to herself. There were moments when it was enough for her to feel something that she had thought had died. Late into the night, when she couldn’t help herself, she thought about what might happen if Draco’s warm, generous nature ever extended to her, and she found herself reaching between her own thighs and wondering. 

  


In the meantime, Hermione’s Ministerial duties meant that she often had Draco Malfoy on her mind anyway. Scorpius was now fully undercover in the Pureblood circle and was reporting back often. Which meant that Harry was often keeping her in the loop. Not that there was much news to be shared. Often, the reports that came back were that Scorpius remained undetected and that he heard rumors that the pureblood group was planning something major. He wasn’t trusted enough to be given the details but he hoped that he would, soon. Sometimes, sitting in the courtroom, watching Draco, Hermione wondered if his dark circles were in part caused by not knowing where his son was or how he was doing. 

  


Finally, the case was decided in the middle of June. According to the news, the case had not been ultimately satisfying. The attorney representing the house elf had been able to sue for mental, physical, and emotional damage. Ceely, the house elf, was now the wealthiest of her people. But, for the rest, the jury had not been able to find a satisfying way to proceed. They could not ask the whole of the medical community to issue an apology nor to counteract with a similar financial repayment. No, Hermione had known that the point of arguing this point had not been to enact systemic change; only the law could do that. But Malfoy had made it a central pillar of his argument so that it could be reserved in the public record. It seemed that he was hoping that there would be someone higher up who might be listening. And he had gambled correctly. When the  _ Prophet _ that bared the news landed on her desk one morning, having been transported by Clearwater herself, Hermione reached into her desk drawer for the small white worn rectangle that had  _ Draco Malfoy, MJD _ on it. She slid it over the desk to Clearwater. “Make the arrangements,” she said, before sliding her reading glasses on and picking up the next memo on her desk.  

  


Clearwater did and a week later, Draco Malfoy was standing in her office once again. She looked up when he walked in, and pulled off her reading glasses. Her heart immediately lept. She willed herself to be calm. “Draco,” she said, with a small smile that he returned. “Minister,” he replied. It took her a moment to maneuver around her desk to shake his hand. “Congratulations,” she was trying particularly hard not to think about the comfort of his hand in hers, “on what I hear was an exceptional trial.” His eyes twinkled and his eyebrows raised for a moment. “Yes, it’s a shame you couldn’t be there, Minister.” A smile passed between them. “Yes, well, it is a shame.” Hermione said, turning. “Clearwater? Would you like to get us started?” Hermione motioned to a chair and Draco unspooled into it. 

  


As Penelope began to discuss their plans for the upcoming bill, Hermione tried to pay as much attention as she could. But she found herself distracted. All of the feelings she’d had while sitting in the courtroom came back to her now. But when he had been at a distance, it had been easier for her to manage them. Now these feelings bore down on here with an almost claustrophobic weight. As surreptitiously as she could, she took in long, calming breaths to cajole her heart in resuming its natural pace. And then she started to get nervous for another reason. 

  


Yes, he was saying all of the right things. He would very much like to collaborate with the Minister and Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures on this proposed piece of legislation. He had quite a few ideas and was happy that his recent efforts had helped them when conceiving the scope of their proposal. But, he had to admit that his schedule was rather full at the moment, as he was quickly being asked to take on several similar cases. While his company did allow for some flex time, he would need to ask his partners if he could take this on as a project. He did not foresee it as an issue. And, yet, his feelings were hidden deep within him, Hermione could tell as much. While he laughed and joked in intervals during their semi-jockular-yet-professional discussion, he also seemed removed. He gave very little away. And Hermione, knowing she was already in too deep, began to sweat.

  


When she had been sitting in the court, she had imagined that there had been a kind of understanding between them, like an inside joke. She thought that maybe they could be more honest with one another.  _ Maybe I was the only one who felt that way _ , she thought, looking down and straightening the pile of paper under her hands with half an ear to the conversation. 

  


“Yes, absolutely,” Draco was saying. “I agree that this proposed bill would receive quite a significant amount of pushback from the Pureblood community that sits on the Wizengamot.” He passed a hand over his face. “I am not quite sure if I am the best person for flipping their votes, however.” He gave Penelope a rather piercing look. “After all, I do not hold as much sway with them, my advocacy history being what it is. I’m afraid I’ve lost some clout where they are concerned, especially after this trial.”

  


“Can you think of a better person for it?” Hermione inquired, tone edging on cold. 

  


Draco looked at her sternly. She returned the look with one as equally serious. He blinked rapidly and his eyes darted to look near her ficus before dropping to an edge of the carpet. “No,” he finally replied, large hands smoothing over the wrinkles of his pants. “I suppose not.” He smiled at her softly. She cocked an eyebrow. “Well, then, I understand that this proposal would be rather an imposition on you, Lord Malfoy, and that you would need some time to consider it. Therefore, please do let us know if you wish to proceed.” She caught sight of Maldrake hovering outside. “Well,” she stood, pointedly. “I’m afraid my next meeting has just arrived. So,” she walked around and extended her hand again. “Thank you for joining us today. Please inform us of your decision as soon as you are able.” 

  


For a moment, he was visibly taken aback and then it was gone. “Minister,” he nodded his head once and shook her hand. “Always a pleasure.” He shook Penelope’s and thanked her for the opportunity, and then he was gone. 

  


Hermione shared a look with Penelope that told her all she needed to know. They were both disappointed. It hadn’t been fair to expect that he would have dropped everything to help them, but, still, they both had been excited on the collaboration. Penelope was reaching for her bag. “We’ll discuss later?” She asked, with a glance over her shoulder. “Mm,” Hermione replied. As Clearwater slipped out, Maldrake ushered her next appointment in. 

  


By the time she had heard Draco’s decision, she was primed to meet Hugo, who was back for the summer hols, for dinner. Her son’s arrival and her own discomfort of never being able to leave her office meant that she was beginning to apartment hunt. Ronald was still occupying the Ministry apartment, though as she heard through various channels, he was now taking care of the baby most of the time. She tried not to think about it. Nor did she try to think about how the apartment was sitting there, unused. She knew that she wouldn’t have wanted to be there anyway – it had too many memories – but it was the principle of the thing. But she had made an agreement and she honored it. Neither her aides nor her security team was particularly thrilled by the idea of her moving out but they understood. By now, her divorce was an open secret amongst her internal team. She wanted it to be made public but she had been advised against it. 

  


Doge, she thought, had put it best. They were discussing her marriage over a few drinks of firewhiskey. “Always hated the man,” he said, with a boom in his voice. “Couldn’t hold a fiddle up to you – ”

  


“ – A candle.” Hermione passed a hand over her face. 

  


“A what?”

  


“Couldn’t hold a  _ candle _ up to me.” 

  


“ ‘S what I said. What did I say?”

  


“Nothing. Never mind.” 

  


“Couldn’t hold a cake up to you. But, no, you mustn’t announce it, no.”

  


“Whyever not?” 

  


 “You’ve done the most good in the least time for this government, well,” he thought about it, “Ever!”

“But the people deserve to know –”

  


“Fiddleferns!” He cried, sloshing his drink down his front with the vehemence of his reply. “All they would see is the scandal of the thing and not how much good you have done them.” He looked overwhelmed at the stain on his front. With a sigh, Hermione handed him a napkin. “Thank you.” He began to dab at it. “And if what you’re really saying is that you think that the Wizard’s Council deserves to know, then you are wrong again, my de – Minister.” He looked pale for a moment but Hermione merely looked bemused at him. “All of those uptight fuddyduds with their righteous notions of what a Minister should be. Bah.” He tossed the napkin onto the table. Then he spoke more seriously. “They would take it as an opportunity. You know you are not much loved in the Sacred Twenty-Eight circles. Don’t give them an excuse to cast you out right when you are doing so well.” 

  


Looking around the sunlit apartment with a sigh, she wondered if he was correct. If she took it, then it would be tantamount to an outright declaration of her divorce. Still, she wanted a place of her own. She supposed that would have to wait. She wondered if she could make the excuse of purchasing it for Hugo, but he was not yet out of school. Besides, she had been ridiculed in the tabloids before for what they had called her splashy opulence – which, in reality had just been the purchase of a new coat. No, she would have to be patient. Hugo would continue to sublet a place on Diagon Alley for the summer and she would just have to wait it out in her little off-room. 

  


She was coming back from the apartment hunt, feeling morose about the future and discussing various points of upcoming legislation with Cresswell, when she saw Draco standing outside of her office. Her heart lifted, reflexively, upon seeing him. 

  


“Malfoy,” she greeted him, with a handshake. 

  


They both remembered that he had asked her to call him by his first name and he frowned in response to hearing his second. “Minister,” he replied. 

  


“Shall we step into my office?” 

  


“Mm.” 

  


She went through the intricate steps of opening her office door, and then turned to Cresswell. She asked Cordelia to make arrangements for dinner, and then gestured for Draco to step inside. 

  


“My apologies, Minister, it is rather late in the day and I do not want to keep you from your dinner plans.” Draco’s frown deepened. Hermione didn’t quite understand why. 

  


“Yes, well.” She ran a hand through her hair. “My son, Hugo, whom you met at the Christmas party –” _whom you were so lovely to_ , she thought but didn’t say, “– has recently come back for the summer holidays and I wanted an opportunity to catch up.”

  


“Ah. Well, since it’s a family gathering then I especially do not want to keep you.” He shifted on his feet in the middle of the room, holding his briefcase in front of him awkwardly. Hermione sat at her desk and leaned in the chair. 

  


“Family? No. Rose and Céleste are on the Rivera with the French Minister – lucky things,” she ended with a grumble. She caught his look. “Not being with the Minister, of course, but the rest of it. Sea and sand and 99s and the warmth – ” She realized she was nattering on and shut up quite suddenly.

  


He was still standing there, giving her a look of concern. “How nice for them. Then, I’m sure I would not want you to keep your son and husband waiting.”

  


“Hus–? Oh.” She blinked. “You haven’t heard.” 

  


“Heard?” he looked into her eyes with a specific feeling that she did not name. 

  


Oh,” she cleared her throat and shrugged. “We have been divorced. For,” and now she had to think about it. “Well, I suppose this makes it almost six months.” She nodded and blinked.  _ Six months. _ She frowned at her own thoughts.  She hadn’t really considered it before. Only six months? Had it really been so long? Then she realized that she had left him in silence. “Sorry, sorry.” She let out a small, anxious laugh. “I suppose I’m not used to saying it. Not many people know.” 

  


“So it’s a secret?” 

  


“I have been advised to keep it as such for the time being.” 

  


“I see.” 

  


There was a long pause where Hermione didn’t feel comfortable enough to look at his face.

  


“Won’t you take a seat?” She finally asked quietly. 

  


He put his briefcase down hastily but, as if self-conscious of this, sat down rather slowly. Then they shared a long look. Hermione’s heart went back to beating erratically. Draco visibly swallowed. 

  


“Erm,” she said, “What did you want to tell me?” 

  


“Oh,” he jerked in his seat and then looked even more self-conscious. “I wanted to let you know that I have decided.” 

  


She looked at him expectantly but he didn’t speak. She blinked. “And what have you decided?” 

  


“I –” He swallowed. “I would be very honored to contribute what I can. My partners have assured me that it is no trouble at all – in fact, they encouraged me to pursue it.” 

  


“Oh, I am very glad it hear it.” She smiled at him. 

  


“Yes. Yes, I was as well.”

  


And they sat there for a moment, grinning at one another. Draco’s shoulders visibly relaxed and he was looking at her with a specific kind of light in his eyes. Hermione felt suddenly shy and ridiculous. 

  


“Well,” she said. “I, um –” Draco looked at her hopefully.

  


Cordelia saved her from whatever awkward thing she was about to say by letting her know that Hermione’s dinner was scheduled and that Hugo was on his way to the restaruant. Hermione sat up straighter in her chair. “Right. Well.” She cleared her throat and stood. Draco stood up quickly, now trying to mask his emotions. “Ah, Cresswell,” Cordelia glanced from Draco to herself. “If you could please owl Clearwater that Lord Malfoy has decided to collaborate with us regarding the upcoming House Elf legislation, I would be grateful.” 

  


“Anything else, Minister?”

  


“No. That’s it. Have a lovely evening.” 

  


Cordelia returned the sentiment and left Hermione and Draco standing there. 

  


“Well,” Hermione interlaced her hands in front of her body. “Thank you. I know that it will be a real asset to have you working with us on this.” 

  


He stuck his hands into his pockets. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” 

  


“Clearwater will be reaching out to you to begin our conversations. Also, we should discuss compensation,” Hearing this, Draco shook his head. “If not for you, for your company, maybe. I would like to properly compensate you for your time, since I know that this will be adding additional stress onto you. In the meantime,” her heartbeat raced again. “Is there anything you need from me?” It was his turn to blink and now she noticed that it was he who was breathing rather fast. 

  


“No, I – I don’t believe I do at the moment.” She could not help but note that his voice was husky. 

“Ah. Right. Well, you know where I am if you do.” She smiled. 

  


“Yes, I do.” He smiled back at her, a little more warmly than he had dared in some time. Her own smile grew. 

  


“So, I ought to, um.” She motioned to the door. 

  


“Right. Can I walk you, if we’re going in the same direction?” 

  


“Mm.” Was about all she could manage. She began hunting for her bag. She was still rooting around for it when Godfrey knocked on the door. 

  


“Ma’am, shall we leave now?” 

  


“Oh! Godfrey,” she looked startled and looked towards Draco who was looking at her. “I won’t be needing an escort tonight. Lord Malfoy has offered to walk me.” 

  


Godfrey’s eyes narrowed. “I see.” He said. “Sir, would you mind stepping out into the corridor, please? This will not take long.” Draco gave her a wide-eyed look but stepped into the hall.

  
  
  


Hermione bit back a laugh and looked at Draco. He was walking and straightening out his tie. He caught her look of amusement and raised his eyebrows back at her. She felt giddy just being near him. “Sorry!” She laughed. “He isn’t usually so thorough.” 

  


“I should hope not. No one would be able to get anything done.” He grinned at her. 

  


“Thank you for not taking it personally.”

  


“Not at all. If I will be frequenting your office more often, then I suppose it had to happen some time.” 

  


“Ah.” She turned to him with a comical grimace. “That may not be the last time.” 

  


When he laughed, it reached his eyes and they crinkled. Merlin, she loved it. His head turned to her. She watched as he looked at her mouth and then her eyes. The bottom of her stomach dropped suddenly. He turned his head and laughed to himself. He shook his head. “Then I would gladly do it again.” He caught her eye again and she felt herself lean a little closer to him. She felt a blush coming on and ducked her head. She was naturally nervous, after all of these months of watching him and imagining about him. Six months since they had last seen each other. It seemed silly, but she missed being around him. She barely knew him and yet –

  


His shoulder bumped into hers. She looked up to find him pressing his shoulder into her and watching her with a small look of concern. “And how are you?” He asked her quietly. 

  


“Alright, yeah.” Her voice was froggy from her heart leaping into her throat. He was so near. 

  


“Seems like a lot has happened since I last saw you.” 

  


“I suppose. We’ve been getting quite a lot accomplished. Three new bills – but you knew about those – otherwise –” 

  


“No,” he interjected, kindly. 

  


“Oh,” Her eyes went wide and she raced a hand through her hair. “You meant the divorce. Right.”  She wondered what she could say about this. “It was, um, inevitable. Amicable – as much as it could be.”

  


“And Rose and Hugo?”

  


“They’re fine. Well, they were against it at first. But they came ‘round.” 

  


 “And him?”

  


A pain she hadn’t realized she had stabbed in her chest. “I haven’t seen him but I have heard he’s fine. His...girlfriend has recently had a child, so I believe that he is busy with them.” She looked for a reaction. There was none from Draco. He looked at the ground. She had a few panicked thoughts before he opened his mouth to say, “Yes, I had heard.” 

  


She gave him a sharp look. “What?” 

  


“There were several rumors that he had not been entirely faithful while you were married. And, in the past few months, there has been discussion of the two of them.” 

  


“Discussion? From whom?” 

  


He looked at her like he didn’t quite know who she was. “No one who matters,” he said in a low,  pointed voice. 

  


She rubbed her face in her hands and then ran her hands through her hair. “I’m sorry,” he said, in the same voice from her side. “I thought you might have known or guessed.” 

  


They were standing by the exits of the Ministry. “Don’t be, Draco.” Her smile did not come to her easily. “I would have known eventually.” Inside of her, she was beginning to panic. If Draco, who did not seem like he reveled in gossip, knew about Evelyn and Ronald then who else knew? “And I’d prefer to hear it from –” She was saying before she even knew where the sentence was going. His eyes went wide and his mouth went slightly slack. “From a friend.” His mouth closed in a tight line and he nodded. She suddenly felt like she had said exactly the wrong thing. 

  


“And you? How are you?” 

  


“Never mind me. I’m sure Hugo is waiting for you.” 

  


“No, I – I want to know.” 

  


“Alright, yeah.” He shrugged a shoulder. “The case was a bit mad. All the attention. I’ve never really been comfortable in the spotlight, so that was a challenge.” 

  


“I can imagine. But you did brilliantly.” 

  


“You think so?” 

  


“Mm.” 

  


There was a pause where Hermione could feel the flush in her cheeks. “And Scorpius?” She choked out. 

  


There was a dark flash of pain across his face that was quickly hidden behind a blank expression. She felt the urge to reach out to him. To tell him that he didn’t have to hide with her. But something stopped her. She hoped that one day she could. 

  


“Dunno.” He gave her a smile that was more like a grimace. “Haven’t heard from him in months. In fact,” he bored a look into her. “You probably hear more about him than I do.” 

  


“Mm.” She answered, with wide eyes. She cast a quick look around. Any Ministry workers who were still milling about weren’t idling to hear what the Minister could possibly be discussing with Lord Malfoy. She would learn, later, that there had been one.

  


For now, she laughed and looked slightly guilty. “Well, I suppose that it’s not revealing any state secrets to say that he is safe and that he’s doing marvellous work for us.” She looked into his face searchingly. “I hope that is helpful.” 

  


The tension slid off of his shoulders. “It is. Thank you.” 

  


“Of course, Draco.” She touched his arm, without thinking about it. She froze. They both looked at her hand on his arm. Then she removed it while pretending that it had never happened. 

  


“Well, I ought to, um.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. 

  


“Right. Yes, me too.” His blue-grey eyes were wide.

  


“Right.” 

  


“Right.”

  


“I suppose I’ll be seeing you soon, then.”    

  


“Yes.” 

  


“Right,” she said, brightly. “Well, until then.” 

  


“‘Til then.”

  


 She smiled at him, then ducked her head and turned. She wrapped a curl behind her ear, smiling to herself. She would know, later, that after she turned away, he stood there for several long seconds with his hands deep in his pockets and a look that, she would know later, as one that bordered on love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are! I thought this would be the penultimate chapter but now I don't think so. I hope you all enjoy! I wanted to give a shout out to everyone who has commented. You all are fantastic and I send you all my love. 
> 
> This one stumped me for a while because I couldn't figure out what the sex was. And then suddenly, I was on a treadmill, asking myself what the sex was and I realized that it was /kindness/. Folxs, I nearly fell over – not the best thing to happen on a treadmill. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this next chapter. <3


	10. Scandal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nobody wins when the family feuds”   
> – Jay-Z, “Family Feud” 

 

There was a  knock on her open office door. “Mm,” she said without looking up. There was light laugh from the doorway. “And how long have you been here today?” Draco’s voice called to her. She rubbed her temple and groaned. “Don’t ask. Doesn’t bear thinking of.” She finally looked up at him. He had three containers in his hands. Her face lit. “Takeaway?” She asked, hopefully.  

Draco laughed to himself and ducked his head for a moment. “Is this a good time?” He grinned at her. 

“Always a bloody good time for takeaway.” She ripped off her reading glasses and put them on the desk. She got busy clearing piles around on her desk. “Come on, then.” 

He laughed with his eyebrows raised. “Eating here? I’m very sorry to say, Madame Minister, that was not my plan.” 

She threw him a grumpy look. Now that she had been lured away from her work, she could feel how hungry she was and how grouchy it made her. “Does your plan also include how in Merlin’s name I’m supposed to get through this stack,” she put her hand on the one nearest to her that was now piled up to her chest. “By Friday?” 

Draco gave her a comical grimace. He looked down the hallway and came in. “Couldn’t it possibly,” he replied in a low, suggestive tone, “not all get done by that time?” He had crossed the room in his trademark confident strides. He leaned across the desk to get in closer to her. As he spoke, his eyes flickered down to her mouth and then caught her eyes with a seductive look. “Or, maybe, it could be delegated it to someone else?” 

He had such a way of making her heart palpitate but she ignored the feeling. Instead she took in a deep breath. “Oh my god,” she slipped into a Muggle-ism. “Is that Thai?” 

“Yes. Satay with extra peanut sauce and beef pad thai.” Her eyelids fluttered and she leaned in closer to him. He looked like the cat that got the cream. Over the weeks that Draco stopped by to help write legislation, he had figured out that Hermione, more often than not, went without dinner in the pursuit of tackling her work. He had started making it a habit of bringing her food once Penelope had gone home for the night. He had somehow known which were her favorites (she strongly suspected that he had bribed Cordelia). Often, he would stay and eat with her. Their conversations, in due course, had moved past awkward, past collegial, and even past just friendly. 

 “One day,” she said, in a low, suggestive tone of her own, “I’ll play you Elvis. Because I am convinced,” and now their heads were especially close, “That he wrote  _ Devil in Disguise _ about you.” 

“Causality, Granger. I wasn’t born when Elvis was alive.” 

“Causality doesn’t matter when it’s the original tempter.” 

He leaned in ever so slightly closer, placing the containers onto the desk. “So now I’m your tempter?” A few cheeky answers sprung in her mind. Instead, she angled in ever so slightly more with a brash smile. His gaze became slightly unfocused and he bit his lip. She gave him an even more dangerous smile. Then she attempted to grab the containers away from him but his hands landed on top of hers. 

She straightened her back and looked at him playfully. “Only where Thai food is concerned.” Her breath was coming to her faster. She looked down at their hands. He was holding her down with enough pressure to let her know he was there but not enough to hurt. She could see his chest heaving. She bit back a laugh and took her hands back. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and gave him a flirtatious look. 

“Alright, fiend. Where are you taking me?” 

He tipped his head back and laughed. “Somewhere with fresh air.” 

Sometimes she wondered if he meant somewhere they couldn’t easily be found. He loved to take her to one particularly secluded bench in the Ministry Gardens. And while she wished he would catch her head in his hands and kiss her behind the begonias, he never did. Instead, they ate and chatted. He would tell her about his latest case and she would offer her thoughts, or he would regale her in tales of the mad habits of his coworkers just to make her laugh. She couldn’t tell him about most of the work she was doing (though she, too, could talk about the everlastingly interesting and frustrating aspects of the office climate), but they could talk about the legislation he and Penelope were writing together. Tonight, though, he was uncharacteristically quiet. He watched her eat with a satisfied smile. Before he spoke, his expression changed. 

“You know,” he ventured, keeping his tone light. “Our argument is almost air-tight. Clearwater and I were just going over it. I can’t see any potential for the Purebloods on council to pick it apart.” 

“That’s great,” Hermione said, covering her mouth with a hand as she spoke through her food. She felt a stab of sadness. She knew very well that as soon as this was over, she would have no convenient excuse for seeing him. No more surprise takeaways or lively dinner conversations. She would miss this – would miss him – keenly. 

“So, we should be able to present it at the next Wizengamot.” 

“Perfect,” she took a large swallow. “Two weeks. You both should be perfect by then.”

“Mm. And I was wondering, if it’s not too forward, if maybe we could continue to have dinner together?”

“Do you mean you’d come to the Ministry and bribe me with more takeaway? Well, I’m alright with that,” she joked, “so long as you don’t make it known how easy it is to buy my vote.” 

He didn’t laugh. “No,” he cleared his throat but his voice still trembled a little. They both pretended not to hear it. “I was rather hoping we could meet somewhere outside of the Ministry.” He gave her a significant glance. 

She put her chopsticks down and gave him a brave smile. She looked at the hand he had resting on the bench. She decided to be courageous. She reached out and took his hand in her own. Her thumb traced across the top of his hand. “I would love that,” she whispered. He smiled nervously. 

“And,” he continued, squeezing her hand slightly. “My flat isn’t too far from the Ministry, so I could cook you dinner sometime, if you wanted, and have you back before the stack of paperwork gets any higher.”

There were several long moments that ticked past where she had to fully process all that he had said before she could speak again. “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I would like that very much.” 

He had an expression on his face like he would like nothing more than to kiss her right then.  _ Go on, then _ , she thought, with a longing she couldn’t deny. But the bushes rustled near them and she let go of his hand very quickly and played it off like she had been reaching for another chicken skewer when Maldrake popped his head around. 

For a heart-stopping moment, she was convinced that he would sneer  _ isn’t this romantic _ at them. Perhaps it was Draco looking at him with the full height of lordly stateliness that made Maldrake think otherwise, because all he said was, “There’s been news, Minister.” 

She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Of what?” 

Maldrake looked at Draco apprehensively. The Minister sighed and gathered her takeaway container. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s alright,” he gave her a tiny smile. “I ought to head out anyway.” Before closing the satay container, he grabbed another skewer and put it in her container. She tried to protest but he smiled at her again. “For the road,” he insisted. 

Maldrake wouldn’t tell her a thing on the way back to the office. He looked uncharacteristically pale. When she asked him about how his piece of proposal for updates on infrastructure for the magical transport systems was going with Percy, his back straightened. She took it as a sign that he had, in fact, not been working on it and sighed to herself. “Going well,” was the terse answer. 

When they rounded the corner to get to her office, Hermione was surprised to see the door already open. Harry was sitting inside, looking into the middle distance and rubbing his beard absently. She had rarely seen him so tired. “Harry?” She questioned. 

“Better sit, Hermione. I’ve just got an owl from our asset.” He looked extremely grave. Hermione’s eyes flitted to Maldrake. “Close the door, please, Maldrake.” 

As soon as she sat down, Harry began. “So, Scorpius has been involved in the Pure Order – what they’re calling themselves these days – for the past six months. Last night, he finally found out what this large plan that they’ve been bragging about will be.”

“And what is it?” Hermione responded, equally serious. Harry pushed his glasses into his hair and rubbed his eyes. 

“The Olympics.” His voice was impossibly weary. “Don’t know why we didn’t think of it before. The Muggle world is hosting the Olympics in London in six weeks’ time.”   

“Oh my God,” she rubbed her face, not caring that she was slipping into a Muggle-ism in front of Maldrake. She stared at Harry. “Bloody hell, Harry.” He slumped further into his chair and leaned his head back. “I know,” he replied. 

“Do we know exactly what they are planning?”

Harry shook his head and pushed his glasses back down to his face. “Not yet.”

Hermione sat, staring at her desk for several long moments. “Maldrake,” she said, finally. “Please contact the Muggle Minister. 

His head snapped up at her and his mouth was agape. “How...how do you want me to do that, Minister?” He looked at her in confusion. 

“Wasn’t your thesis on Muggle communications technologies,” she snapped, irritably. Maldrake’s mouth went into a thin, pale line. “The telephone, please.” She said, barely controlling her seething. He nodded curtly and exited quickly. She sighed to herself.

“You need to be careful, Hermione.” Harry was giving her the look she usually received from him when she had crossed a line.  

“Yes, I know. Should have been nicer. He was probably just in shock. I’ll apologize later.” 

“Yes, that.” He paused. “But also,” He stared into her. It seemed like he was struggling to figure out what to say next. Apparently, he couldn’t find it. He sighed. “Hermione, people are talking.” 

“Really,” she replied, drily. “What about now?”

“The divorce.” 

She shook her head and tapped her knuckles on her desk top gently. “This is why I wanted to publish in the  _ Prophet _ . My people are so cautious of what the Purebloods on the Wizengamot will say about a divorced woman as the Minister but you know that I’ve never cared a bloody fig for what they –” 

“People know, Hermione.” 

“Know what, Harry,” exhaustion crept into her tone. Her hand paused.

“Your affair with Draco Malfoy.” 

“Affair?” She laughed incredulously. “Harry, in order to have an affair then one must actually have an affair. And I most certainly am not having one. Besides, as I understand it, one must be married in order to have an affair. Just ask Ronald.” She groused the last bit under her breath.  

He looked at her seriously. “But you don’t need to have one in order to be accused of having an affair.” She scoffed and shook her head. “And, as far as anyone knows, you are still married. To a man who loves you very much. I know it’s not what you want to hear after everything that’s happened in the past six months, but, Hermione,” he leaned forward and put his forearms on his knees. “You need to have as many allies in the coming days as you can.” 

“The coming days?” Her mouth fell open. “Are you proposing that people would be so foolish as to vote me out of this office now?” 

He bit his lip and considered the floor for a moment. Their eyes met in a tense silence. He spoke carefully. “Hermione, there are people who would very much like to see you fail. Please do not give them cause to advocate for your removal.” 

Her finger tapped her desk. “I think it’s a little too bloody late for that, Harry.” She rubbed the surface of her desk, ran a hand through her hair, and sighed. “But, yes, I will be careful.” She glared at him.  _ A man would never have to deal with this absolute nonsense _ , she grumbled to herself. 

Maldrake slinked back into the office. “You have an appointment with the Muggle Minister scheduled for 8 PM tonight.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Right,” she sighed. “Thirty minutes. Thank you, Maldrake.”

He nodded and moved towards the door. “Maldrake? Apologies for earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped like that.” It wasn’t a great apology, but it was all she could manage right now. He turned and nodded again at her. “Ma’am.” Then he was gone. 

Harry gave her a look. She gave him an exasperated look right back and her hands fell limply on the desk. She huffed, then slouched into her chair, crossing her arms. She wanted a distraction before speaking with the other Minister. And it had been an age since she’d seen Harry. “How’s the family, then?” 

A grimace of pain flitted across Harry’s face. He suddenly couldn’t meet her eyes and there was a twist in his mouth. “What?” She asked, innocently. 

He rubbed his nose. “ ’Suppose you’d find out eventually, anyway.” He sighed. “We went to the christening on Tuesday.”

“Christening? Who’s had – Oh,” she realized a little too late, “Right.” The pain was sudden and sharp. She hadn’t been invited. Not the biggest surprise but, really. Maybe a card in the mail would’ve been polite, at least. She then wondered if she actually wanted an invitation card for the christening of her ex-husband’s extramarital child. She determinedly decided that she did not. She looked at Harry impatiently. “And?” She nearly demanded. 

“ ’S fine, really.” Her eyebrows raised at him. He ran a hand through his hair and it stuck up in a new angle. “You know, ’s a baby. Looks an awful lot like dough in a cute way. Already has the red hair, like the rest.” This unexpected detail caused a new pang of pain shoot through her. She couldn’t help but think about Hugo and Rose when they were born and how happy she had been and how much Ronald had loved them –

She had to stop herself before she spiraled. “Right.” She breathed. 

Harry was studying her. But he knew she was tough, so he cautiously continued on. “Named the poor thing Agatha after Evelyn’s mother and the saint...apparently....” He scratched his neck and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She was laughing a little manicaly. “What a terrible name for a baby!” She finally exclaimed. “Oh, poor dear.” 

“Mm,” Harry said, still looking at her sideways. “You alright then?”

She shrugged. “Yes. No. Dunno.” She blinked rapidly. “How’s Evelyn then?” It was out before she could stop herself. 

“She’s…” He studied her face, his own brows furrowed. “Looking worse for wear.”

“Babies. They’ll do that.”

“Mm, yes, but this seems to be a little different.” A brief chill went down Hermione’s spine.  _ Nothing she could do about that, now _ . 

“Did you know that she’s only twenty-three?” She said in a higher-than-normal voice. “Found that out the other day. Only four years older than Rose.” Harry broke their gaze and toed the carpet. She felt like she had a wild look in her eye. 

“Didn’t know that, actually.” 

“Hm. Yup.” She said, popping the p. “Don’t understand the appeal, really. On either side. But I thought he would’ve had more sense than – ” She snapped her jaw shut before she said anything she might regret and fingered the blood-red crystal that hung now, always, around her neck. Harry looked like he would rather be anywhere else. 

“Right, then,” she said, a little too loudly. “The Muggle Minister. Help me think of what to say.” 

Ten minutes before she went through the portrait, she slipped back into her small bedroom. Fudge had given the former Muggle Ministers the impression that all wizards were eccentrically dressed and generally mental. She’d worked hard to dispel that image. Tonight, she dressed in her sharpest suit and most sensible heels. Then, she left quickly, and went straight for the portrait. 

An hour later, she climbed back out. She sighed and unbuttoned her suit jacket. She wasn’t particularly impressed with this Minister. He had only come into this office in recent days and he seemed overwhelmed already. He had unfortunate floppy blonde hair and seemed to be known for biking into work.  _ Which must not help with the hair _ , she thought. He hadn’t wanted to hear about the possible attack. He had enough problems, he’d said, as if he were the only one. He had interrogated her multiple times about her security team and the steps that they would take to stop the possible terrorist attack. “I can give you every assurance,” she said through gritted teeth at one point, shortly before she had left, “That we more than have this under control. I came here tonight in the spirit of transparency to inform you that we will do everything in our power to ensure that this attack does not happen.” She then watched him get in a tizzy and tie himself up in knots. She’d said something clipped when he had asked her for the fourth time if she was able to control this situation. Then she had to bid him a good evening. 

She tore the jacket off and tossed it on the back of her chair. She strode out of her office in search of ice cream. She dismissed her security detail, assuring them that she would not leave the building. On her way to the kitchens, she went through the Magical Creatures department in the off-chance that Draco was still there. Miraculously, he was. When she spotted him bent over Penelope’s desk, she felt a weight lift from her chest. “Hiya,” she said, as she slid up to the desk. She fully leaned against the wall, resting her head against it, and folded her arms in front of her. 

“Hi yourself,” he smiled at her tiredly and took off his reading glasses. Then he took in the breadth of her. “You’re looking very sharp.” 

“Thanks. ’Fraid I had an emergency meeting with the Other Minister.”

He frowned. “That can’t be good.” 

“No,” she replied, hugging her arms closer to her. “It wasn’t.”

His eyes didn’t miss a thing. His brows contracted. “I’m sorry to hear it.” She looked at her toes and blinked rapidly. She took a breath. “Do’ya want to get some ice cream or a drink or something?” It all came out in a rush.  

A ghost of a smile played across his lips. “Yes, in fact,” He raised his eyebrows playfully. “I believe I have both of those back at mine.”

Something hard dropped into her stomach. “Right.” She grimaced regretfully. “I just let my security team go for the night and told them that I wouldn’t leave the building.” 

“Ah,” he swivelled in his chair and grinned at her. “Because rules have stopped you before…?” 

She laughed in genuine surprise. “That is a fair point.” She smirked, feeling an old familiar kind of Gryffindor recklessness streak through her. Especially after the day she’d had, didn’t she deserve to…? He stood up and reached for the jacket he had hung on the back of it. “I should think that anything that was looking to cross you,” He slipped the jacket on. “Should be more wary of you than you should be of it.” He chuckled tiredly and rubbed his eyes. “Did that make sense?” 

“Yes,” She grinned back at him. 

“So,” he said, using a bit of wordless magic to turn Penelope’s desk light off, a detail that did not escape Hermione. Rather, it excited her. “Do you have a secret way out of here?” 

Now she really grinned. “Just one?” She asked, feigning innocence. 

When they were out in the corridor, Draco turned to her. “Well, now I’m nervous,” he admitted. “Should we get some of your Polyjuice Potion?” 

“My what?” She played coy again. “Though Polyjuice Potion is not illegal, I’m sure it would be quite inappropriate for the Minister of Magic to have it. After all, who knows what the Minister could get up to in someone else’s image.” 

“Right,” He laughed and bit his lip. “So, in theory, how might the Minister of Magic remain unnoticed?”

She grinned. “Well, in theory,” she pulled a serious face again. “The Minister of Magic would perform a masked Notice-Me-Not charm. Strong enough not to be seen but not strong enough to cause anyone alarm. But the down side, theoretically,” She turned to Draco, holding her hand out, “Is that even the person the Minister might be walking with wouldn’t be able to see her.” 

He looked at her hand. “And wouldn’t it be strange for the person who the Minister was walking with the be holding hands with the air?” He took her hand and tucked it under his arm, just out of sight of those who passed. Her heartbeat quickened. She could feel his musculature, long and lean under her fingers, and her face felt suddenly warm.  _ Concentrate _ , she chided herself. Then she wordlessly cast the spell. His eyes went wide. He tried to look at where she was but his eyes kept slipping off of her. 

“This is quite impressive,” he breathed, leaning in and trying to keep his lips from moving. “I won’t lose you, right? I can still feel you, after all.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “You won’t lose me,” she whispered to him. He didn’t know but they were almost nose-to-nose now. Her pesky heart pounded in her ears. “Well,” he said to his feet. “You’d better lead then.” She gave him a long look. She was being reckless, yes, but it didn’t feel wrong. Unlike when she usually broke the rules, she didn’t have any guilt about breaking this one. She just wanted to be alone – truly alone – with Draco for once. 

“Right, then.” She said as she guided them towards the nearest secret exit. 

When they were close to the statue that would move away from a tunnel, she spotted someone at the end of the hallway. “Uh oh,” she murmured, but kept walking. His head indicated towards where she was. “What is it?” He whispered. She didn’t say but let him see it himself. 

Maldrake and Percy Weasley were at the end of the hallway, speaking in quiet tones to one another. When Maldrake spotted Draco, he looked shocked. Then he nodded in recognition. Percy, in mid-sentence, stopped when he saw Draco. He also indicated a hello. Draco nodded back at them. Then Percy put his hand on Maldrake’s shoulder and guided him away from Draco and down another passage. 

  “Your charm must be very strong if they had that reaction.” She laughed quietly but he couldn’t see the look of concern on her face. The charm was not that strong, though it did seem to have a habit of unsettling people. But not like that. She decided that their dislike of Draco must have caused them to react in that way. She supposed that if this relationship – whatever it was – were to continue, then she might have to get used to the idea that not everyone believed in Draco’s transformation. 

She stopped in him front of the statue of a noble hippogriff. Its stone wings were elegantly tucked behind it and its had one hoof raised. She felt Draco freeze for a second. “This is the exit?” He breathed to her. “Yes, there’s a tunnel right behind it. We’d better be quick about it before anyone else comes this way.” 

He was quiet. “Are its eyes following me?” 

She looked up at the statue. Its life-like eyes bore into her. “Yes, it tends to that.” 

“What’s the secret?” He asked trepidatiously. 

“The same as any hippogriff.” She felt him freeze next to her again. “Shall we do it together?” She nudged him softly. He nodded. Together, they bowed, not breaking eye contact. The hippogriff returned it in a deep bowed that revealed the tunnel behind it. The two wizards scrambled over its back and disappeared. As the hippogriff closed its exit, she took the charms off of her as Draco did another piece of wordless magic to conjure a little blue flame of light. 

“That was awesome,” he grinned at her. She smiled back, shyly. “Come on,” he laughed, and took her hand like he had been doing it his whole life. “Let’s see where this goes.” (She already knew but she smiled at his enthusiasm.) 

The tunnel snaked upwards until it spit them out in an alleyway about two blocks away from the Ministry. “Huh,” he said, extinguishing the light when they stepped out of the doorway and into the alley. “That’s incredible.” He gave her an intense look she couldn’t quite read. “My flat’s around the corner.” 

Her stomach dropped. “Is it?” She tried to keep the feeling out of her voice but failed. 

“Yes.” He stared at her, then dropped his gaze and scratched his head. “And to think I could have had such an easy commute this whole time.” 

“Easy commute.” She scoffed. “As if it were difficult before.”

He grinned at her and they started walking. 

She wasn’t really sure what she would have conjured in her head if she had been asked to imagine Draco Malfoy’s apartment. The door led directly into the kitchen which was sleek and modern, as she might have expected. All stainless steel appliances and clean lines. But, as she continued to look around, the flat was also filled with furniture, rugs, and art objects from all around the world. As a result, the flat was filled with vibrant colors. It felt cozy and lived in. 

“Wine?” He asked, after he put his briefcase and jacket on the chair next to the door as she marvelled at the flat. 

“Please.” She peeked into the adjoining room. It appeared to be the living room. 

“Have a seat, if you want,” he said over his shoulder. “Red or white?” 

“Red,” she answered and rubbed her forearm. She had caught sight of the mantlepiece and she went to take a closer look. There were moving photos of his family: Scorpius at age six in a Quiddich uniform astride a child-sized Nimbus Two Thousand; the three of them laughing and looking at one another lovingly; and a woman who could only be Astoria Malfoy, looking back at the camera, on the top of a cliff, and smiling as her ringlets were blown wildly in the sea breeze. She was impossibly beautiful. 

Hermione swallowed down a knot in her throat and wrapped her arms around herself. She had somehow forgotten. 

When Draco came into the living room with two glasses of red wine, Hermione had one hand absently tracing over the top of the mounted, fossilized dragon’s skull, while she was looking out of the window pensively. It pointed out to the high street. She turned when he came in. She gratefully accepted the wine. “This is quite a view,” she said, quietly. He was standing close behind her, looking over her shoulder. She could hear his breathing and it made her feel more than she was prepared to. She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, she could see him looking at her through the darkened window’s reflection. “Yes, it is,” he agreed softly. 

She ducked her head and swallowed some wine. He read her obvious and sudden discomfort. He took a step back. “Would you like to sit?” She nodded. 

It was awkward to start again. He didn’t push her to talk about whatever she was feeling, which she appreciated. His face didn’t give anything away but he sat farther away from her than they had been sitting recently. It made her feel slightly upset to have him so far from her after there had been such casual intimacy between them while they had been walking here. But she was also perversely grateful for it. She was still recovering from seeing the photos of his family. She briefly wondered if she had made a mistake by coming.

The conversation didn’t come as easily as it had before but Hermione tried. She asked about the objects in the room, where they had come from. Draco launched into one or two stories that she could tell would be his favorite to tell at a dinner party. They were genuinely funny and Hermione felt herself relaxing. She took off her shoes to curl up on her side of the couch. She even told a story or two of her own as they finished the first glass of wine. “Would you want another?” He asked. His cheeks were slightly flushed and his eyes looked at her brightly. She studied him for a moment, trying to decide what it was she was feeling. There was a warmth in his eyes that she hadn’t seen since the Christmas party. If she dared to name it, she might say that he looked at her lovingly. _ But, no, that couldn’t be right. It was far too soon _ . 

“Absolutely,” she said, smiling. 

While drinking their second, Hermione threw her head back laughing. “I’m absolutely serious!” Draco said, also laughing. “Scorp was convinced that the only way to do it was to put it on the floor and stand on it. Poor thing almost got hit straight in the face.” 

“Oh no,” she said as she laughed, clutching her side. “Oh nooo.” 

“Oh, yes! And then the neighbor’s bloody cat got involved.” 

She laughed even more, covering her mouth with her hand. He was laughing with her. He was sitting closer to her now, and his hand was resting right next to her leg. “Ready for another?” He asked.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” She asked, still laughing a little. 

“Absolutely not. This is a bid for your vote.” He grabbed her glass and got up to pour them another drink. She followed him into the kitchen. She slid to lean against the granite topped island with the kitchen window to her back.

“Oh,” she guffawed. “Because you’re so unsure of it.” 

“Well, you haven’t seen any of what we’ve been working on. We could be advocating for...oh, I dunno...insisting that all house elves magic hair onto themselves, dye it bright purple and that they stick it directly up.” He turned around to her and pointed at her using the wine bottle. The liquid sloshed inside of it. “Did you ever see those silly little plastic Muggle toys? What was that all about?” 

She laughed, bending almost double. “Haven’t a clue!” She wiped a tear away from her eye. “Rose wanted as many as she could get her hands on.” 

“Oh, Merlin, no!” He laughed as he poured. 

“Yes! I used to step on them barefoot all the time.” She exhaled while laughing, trying to catch her breath. “Oh, they hurt so much.” She laughed breathlessly again. He was walking back towards her, sliding the glass over the counter. “But stringent codes of dress. Purple hair. Lots of Muggle hair gel. That sounds exactly like you.” 

His eyes twinkled as he laughed. “Absolutely.” He raised his glass up to his mouth. She beamed at him, panting for her breath.  _ God, he is so beautiful _ , she thought, feeling suddenly struck. His hair was ruffled from running his hand through it many times and, she hadn’t noticed before, he was developing a slight beard. It made him look sleep-tousled – especially now that his shirt was unbuttoned to expose his clavicle. She suddenly wanted to know what it was to wake up next to Draco Malfoy. Meanwhile, he was watching her eyes drift along his body and his smile was disappearing into a more serious kind of look. He took a step closer to her, putting his wine glass down. Her breath was hard to catch for a different reason now. She looked at his hand, leaning against the top of the granite. She hesitated for a long moment and then put her own hand on top of it. Her heart was loud in her ears and her throat was dry.  _ He wouldn’t hurt you _ , she told herself. He was so warm and so, unbelievably – miraculously, real. He took another step closer to her and leaned his head in close. He looked at her mouth, traced his knuckles over line of her jaw, and looked more deeply into her eyes. She closed her eyes briefly at this soft touch but she hesitated again.  _ He isn’t Ronald _ , she had to tell herself. He stood there, waiting, not pressing her to make a decision. After some long seconds, Hermione decided to trust. She interlaced their fingers as she brought in her head towards his.

Their first kiss was a tentative one. It was him asking if it was okay. The second was her absolute confirmation. His lips were soft and warm against hers. He tasted like red wine and she was sure she did too. A warm feeling in her chest began to bloom. On the third, she wrapped her hand around his shirt fabric and pulled him even closer as his large hands wrapped around her hips and drew her in close. She suddenly found out how much she wanted. He groaned at the fourth one when she pressed her body into his and when she slid her own hands down his body and pulled at his waist, he had to break apart for breath. His eyes fluttered open and his gaze was unfocused on her. His hand drifted back up to her face. “Hermione,” he breathed, pressing his forehead into hers. She smiled at the joy of hearing him say her name. His eyelashes were long and his eyes were more complex than she had ever known before. He was looking at her like he absolutely wanted more but like he couldn’t ask. His grip was hard on her waist. “We work together,” he finally said, regretfully. 

“I know,” she replied, breathlessly. “I know.” She nuzzled her nose against his neck with her eyes closed briefly. When he held her against him for a long moment, she could smell traces of grass and parchment on him. She breathed in deeply, not knowing if this would ever happen again. She finally took several steps back. 

Her body missed his warmth instantly. She found her glass of wine and took a drink. She had to grasp it with both hands, since they were still shaking. “Thanks for the wine,” she said. His mouth was still slightly open and his eyes were glassy. She mirrored his look for a moment, then looked into her drink and laughed to herself. She leaned against the island and watched as he paced close to her.  _ Just like a large cat _ , she thought to herself. He slid in next to her. She had a hand resting on the granite top. He put his own next to hers and rubbed the back of his knuckles softly against the back of her hand. “So,” he said, softly. “What do we do?” 

She blinked rapidly and smiled tentatively. He wasn’t pushing for more but he did want to see her again. “Two weeks,” she said. “Until the vote.” His knuckles were tracing slightly up her forearm now. “And you’ll be free from my employ.” He looked bemused at this archaic expression. “Can I see you after that?” She asked. 

He smiled at her hand. He glanced up at her. He looked so handsome with his crows-feet showing around his eyes. “It’s a date. And, until then,” He swirled the glass of wine. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep it strictly professional.” 

“I wouldn’t want anything less,” she said, with a ghost of a smile. 

“I understand,” he replied, with a smile that matched hers.

When they had finished their wine, Hermione thought it would be best if she went back to the Ministry before she broke their newly formed agreement. He insisted on walking her back to the doorway. While they were saying good-bye, he kept his distance but his smile was like a promise. She slipped back through the doorway, down the tunnel, and through the hallways feeling like she was floating on air. She wished there could have been more. But, as she walked, she couldn’t help but touch her lips and close her eyes in joyous disbelief.  _ The way he had looked at her, the way he had kissed her, the way he had held her to him _ .  _ No, there couldn’t be any mistaking it _ . When she went to bed that night, she went to sleep smiling.

 

The two weeks could not pass quickly enough, in Hermione’s mind. But she had plenty to do. Scorpius’ situation was becoming more tenuous though he was doing a wonderful job giving them intel from the inside. He was finally becoming trusted enough that people were beginning to use their real names around him. Before, there had been such a strong cult of secrecy about names, titles, and plans. But, now, Scorpius had, somehow, become trusted in their eyes. Harry mentioned that he might have had to prove himself in some way and Hermione had decided that she would rather not know how. The more names she and Harry had, the most plans they made to track them. 

Otherwise, her daily meetings dragged on. She tried not to think about Draco. She also tried not to raise suspicion in anyone and left her daydreaming about being kissed by Draco for her late nights alone. She was still hoping to figure out a way of making it known that she had been divorced. She had even asked Doge about it but he absolutely quashed the idea. “Make it to year seven,” he said, “and then enough time will have passed that people will not care.” When he had said that, she could not hide the irritation. “Two years, Doge? And am I just supposed to be quarantined to this office in the meantime?” 

“Minister, I know it is not ideal, but you need as many Pureblood lords on your side in the Wizengamot as possible.” 

“Hang the Pureblood lords,” she grumbled, scribbling her signature on the certificate he had handed her and she handed it back. 

“Oh,” he chuckled. “Those days are long gone. As much as we might miss them.” He called as he left. 

But it wasn’t like she never saw him. Maybe it would have been easier if she didn’t. Clearwater had decided that the bill proposal was tight enough to show to the Minister. When she read it, she was struck by the beauty of its logical framework and its language. She had never read a piece of legislation as quickly as she did the one that Draco had so obviously finessed. When she was finished, she turned it around and read it all over again. She shook her head over the language. She wanted to breathe it in. She wanted to be wrapped in it. And, most importantly, she wanted Draco – possibly more than she ever had before.

The next evening, Penelope and Draco were in her office. She kept it brief, barely daring to look at him. She gave them her approval with some minor comments. She said that she was looking forward to their presentation in the morning. Penelope thanked her and looked at her wristwatch. “Minister, is it alright if I take off? My son needs a pick up from after school.” Clearwater seemed to be the one who was most often on after school pick-up duty, which Hermione understood, so she immediately agreed. Clearwater smiled gratefully, tucked the lightly edited bill under her arm, and left. 

After Penelope had gone, Hermione studied her desk. She traced her hands over its surface. She never could be very patient, she reflected. Her breath was short. Finally, she couldn’t stand it. She looked up into his eyes. He was looking at her like he wanted to consume her. Hermione broke their eye contact almost immediately and looking up into a corner of the room. She breathed in deep and let it out in a huff. 

“Tell me,” his voice was low, “What did you really think?” 

She glanced back at him quickly, frowning. Her stare bore into him as her cheeks flushed pink. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. 

“It was brilliant, Draco.” His jaw tensed. He opened his mouth to say something but Maldrake and Harry burst in. Harry assessed the situation quickly and raised an eyebrow at Hermione, knowingly. She pursed her lips. 

“Sorry, mate,” Harry said to Draco, “I’m afraid I have to ask you to go. State secrets and whatnot.” 

Draco gave Harry a look that seemed to comment on this high-handed behavior. “I understand,” he said gently, then put his own copy of the lightly edited bill proposal in his briefcase. She wanted to wish him well for tomorrow. Maldrake had crossed his arms and was staring at Draco, and then at the Minister, like he was trying to put something together. 

“Good night, Minister.” He said, standing. 

“Good night, Lord Malfoy,” she replied. And then he was gone. As soon as Maldrake had closed the door, Harry turned to her. “Scorpius is getting worried. It seems that he has had a few close calls. He wants to be extracted.” 

“How close?” She hated that she needed to ask. 

“They saw him with Aurelia Shaklebolt.” 

“Aurelia?” She was surprised. “So they –” 

“Yes, for quite some time now.”  

“While he was undercover? That seems like a risk.”

“It was. He’s worried for her. Apparently, after they saw the two together, certain members of the group did a raid on his things and found her photo stuffed in a sock.” 

“So, he wants to be taken out because – ?”

“They don’t take too kindly to a Pureblood wizard dating a wizard of color.” 

Her temper flared. “Harry, why can’t we bring this Pure Order in now. Put an end to all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense.” 

“Because they haven’t actually committed a crime yet.” Harry leaned in. “Now I’m going to have a discussion with Scorpius about how he cannot abandon the case. But I need certain protections from you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

“Scorpius will stay in if he knows Aurelia is safe, I know he will.”

“Then see to it that two of your top operatives protect her at all time until we can stop this group.” 

Harry drew back. He was clearly dissatisfied but he knew how these things went. Maldrake did not. 

“Is that – that’s it?” He sputtered. “That’s all the protection you can promise? What about a safehouse?” 

Her gaze rooted him to the spot. He swallowed, suddenly remembering who exactly she was. “Unfortunately, I cannot offer more at this time. It is an enormous expense on our taxpayers to put someone into a safehouse which, yes, would be the best option. Or did you forget that the Wizengamot is tomorrow?” Her voice was soft and deadly. She could see Maldrake begin to sweat. “And there is not a chance in hell that I will distract those members from any of the important bills put in front of them just so they can call me out for spending money I did not earn on a suspicion.” She turned to Harry. “And it is a suspicion. It is not known to be a fact that they will go after Aurelia.  _ If _ they can figure out who she is and where she lives and  _ if _ they can even get close enough to touch her, then I would be happy to discuss more options. Until that time, even having two of the top Aurors in your division protect her will be a drain on funding.” She looked back at Maldrake. He was pale. “I wish I did not have to say things in this manner, but I do.” The venom was gone from her voice. Her eyes flicked back to Harry, who knew better than to test her now. “ Now, is there anything else?”

“No, Minister,” Harry put his hands in front of his body and his jaw flexed. Hermione paused. 

“Maldrake, if you could please leave us for a moment.” He looked startled by the request but nodded. The door shut quietly behind him. 

“Harry, if this attack is as dangerous as they are boasting it will be, then we cannot afford to lose Scorpius.” He nodded once. “So, if he is not content with this option for Aurelia, then you will tell him that you will need to discuss with me about giving her more. And then you will contact him again saying that you have my assurance that every protection has been provided for her. It’s imperative that he stays.” She hated everything that she was saying but she couldn’t see a way around it. 

“And Aurelia?” 

“Say whatever you need to in order to have her keep as low a profile as possible. Bog her down with paperwork. Have her track every lost pygmy puff. Whatever you can think of.” 

Harry nodded but his mouth was still pressed in a thin line. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Harry. I can’t see a way around it.”

“Very good, ma’am. Good night, ma’am.” His face was still stormy and conflicted as he turned to walk out. She shot a look at his back. When she was alone again, she sat with her brows contracted and her fist pressed into her face for a very long time. 

 

The next morning, she was standing in her black robes behind the curtain to the Minister’s seat in the Wizengamot court. She had barely slept. She had remembered, at about two in the morning that she not only had to grit her teeth through watching Draco and Penelope fall or fly today but she also had to see Ronald again for the first time since January. She was trembling so much it felt like she would fall apart. She felt like she was close to tears. She took a few deep, calming breaths, and pressed the flats of her palms against her eyes. She didn’t give a fig what Ronald thought of her, but she was nervous that he would be able to tell. That she had kissed Draco, that she was falling –  _ what,  _ she chided herself,  _ falling in love? You haven’t known him nearly long enough _ – or whatever it was that she felt – that it would be apparent on her face. They had known each other for so long. At one point, he had been her best friend and her closest confidant. There was a time when he could read her face from across a room. And maybe he still could. 

 She breathed out again and triple-checked that every hair was in place. Then she stepped out. 

A sea of plum robes greeted her. The court was full. She felt sick. She smiled and nodded at the various lords who caught her eye. She couldn’t help but notice, while looking around, that Ronald was on the very edge of the row of benches. Harry and Draco were in the middle. Harry was speaking rather emphatically, gesturing with his hands, while Draco nodded seriously. She looked at him in almost disbelief. She had never realized he wore plum so well. But as much as she wanted to continue watching him, she dragged her eyes away. Finally, she had to make eye contact with Ronald. Luckily, she had always kept their greetings in the court extremely professional. But she had not realized, while she had been standing behind the curtain thinking about  _ his _ feelings that she would have forgotten to remember  _ hers _ . And just looking into his pale face, ringed with dark circles, made her livid. She nodded curtly and worked on masking her feelings. When she was able to look back up, she began to understand that there were quite a lot of members of the Pureblood community that were frowning disapprovingly at her – more, at least, than usual – and there was some unfortunate snickering at her expense. She straightened her back and called the room into order. Then they heard the first case. 

Hermione had decided to ramp up to the argument, so Maldrake’s transportation funding bid was first. The argument was flimsy and he was a nervous wreck. But everyone had known that it was an issue, so it passed handily. Then, Doge presented a bill on new tariffs. It took an hour of questions for the point to get across. In this time, Hermione, keeping her face a careful blank, weighed the pros and cons of stabbing herself in the leg.  _ Perhaps it would give her less physical pain _ , she reflected. Finally, the stage was cleared and Clearwater stepped up. Hermione’s pulse jumped in her throat. 

They had decided that Clearwater would be the one to argue in front of the Wizengamot, as it would have put Draco in too precarious a situation. Besides, he had argued, it was really Clearwater’s project; he had only added a few details. Hermione, who was sitting across the room when he said this and who also knew how much he had shaped it into the thing of beauty that it was now, gave him an intense look he would one day understand. But it was agreed that Clearwater would be the best for it. She stood in her light blue robes and began.  

 Hermione wanted to listen to her friend but she was distracted. Too distracted. She almost entirely tuned out Clearwater, though the argument was as persuasive and compelling as it had been on paper. Hermione was too worried about the Purebloods on the council. She leaned back in her chair, folded her hands in front of her face and watched the Pureblood community like a hawk. When they figured out what the bill was about, there was a variety of reactions. Yaxley choked on his own breathing and turned a violent shade of purple. Carrow got so cross that sparks began to shoot from his wand. Pansy Parkinson, on the other hand, gave Hermione a bemused look and an arch eyebrow. Hermione’s eyes scanned the crowd long enough to catch Daphne Greengrass’ expression. She was the most surprised by Daphne’s reaction though for an entirely different reason. Daphne Greengrass, who had kept both her name and her seat, was a frequent voter on the Wizengamot. Hermione knew that she often voted favorably towards Hermione’s causes. But today, Daphne had a complicated expression on her face. Daphne was looking at someone on the other side of the court. Hermione followed her eyes and saw Draco’s face tilted towards Hermione’s. He was gazing at her. As soon as she raised an eyebrow at him, he remembered himself. She kept her mask on and continued to look around the room though her eyes traveled back to him in time to notice the heat rising above his collar. Hermione blinked and glanced back at Daphne. Daphne was staring at a spot of the floor below her, a hard look of pain on her face. Hermione’s stomach knotted in guilt, and, with a considerable deal of might, forced herself to listen to the rest of Clearwater’s speech.

When it was done, there was silence in the court. Hermione could feel the glare of some fifteen Pureblood members. Her eyes darted over to that side of the room and she could see that Draco was also receiving his fair share of dirty looks from those who knew he had been involved. An angry murmuring started on that side of the room. Hermione had been anxious that there might have been an outright revolt against these policies – fair working hours, fair compensation for work, rights for healthcare for house elves. She was advocating for reign of treating house elves like slaves to end. She couldn’t help but glance at Ronald. He was looking at her with narrowed eyes. He had never really understood the cause and had often asked for Hermione to consider having a house elf raise their own children. This bill meant that he would have to change the diapers himself. She felt a perverse streak of joy. 

She called the court into order and set it to a vote. This was the moment that had brought her, sweating, bolt awake at two in the morning: the idea that after all of that struggle that Penelope and Draco had done, that this still might not pass. Penelope had assured her that it was alright, that they would just ratify it and argue it again and again until they heard her. The thought exhausted Hermione, but it was reality she would be prepared to live with if she had to. “All those against?” She kept her hands folded on her lap. The usual suspects raised their hands –  _ though,  _ she thought, her heart madly racing,  _ not as many as expected _ . “And all those in favor?” She raised her hand straight into the air. It was by no means a sea of hands, but it was enough. 

She turned to the court tallier. The tallier, who obviously could not care less, said, “Twenty-four for, twenty-two against, and four undecided. The ayes have it.” Hermione allowed herself a brief moment where she closed her eyes and exhaled. Then she opened them and announced the next case. 

When the Wizengamot was over, Harry insisted that they get a drink. “Come on, Hermione! You’ve been fighting for this for most of your life! Come on, let’s celebrate!” He caught her up in his arms and squeezed her. She laughed and returned the hug with force. Over Harry’s shoulder, she caught Draco’s warm and intense look. She smiled, gratefully, in return. “Come on, Draco, Clearwater. We must!” 

 

And, so, there they were, laughing, joking, celebrating, and drinking late into the afternoon. Harry had bought one bottle of champagne to celebrate, and then another, and then another for the table. He was properly pissed now. “Anyone want another?” He said, rather too loudly. Hermione giggled and pushed her glass closer. He gave her a healthy pour. He turned to Clearwater. “How about it, Clearwater? Another?” 

Penelope smiled and shook her head. “Afraid I have the after school duty again.” She checked her wristwatch. “In fact, I ought to, erm,” she gathered up her things. 

Hermione stood and gave her a hug. “Great work, Penelope,” she said. “That was really brilliant.” 

Penelope nodded and gave her a small, warm smile. “It rather was, wasn’t it?” She turned to the rest. “Right, I’m off.” She faced Hermione again. “Thank you.” 

Hermione shook her head. “It was all you.” The women smiled at each other and then Penelope turned to leave.  

“What time is it?” Harry suddenly demanded, almost upsetting a stout water glass. 

Draco caught the glass before it tipped over. Some water sloshed over his fingers. “Almost six, I think,” he replied, setting it carefully back upright. 

“Bugger,” Harry said, running his hands through his hair. “I ought to be off too. Gin’ll have my –” he chose not to finish that sentence. “We’re supposed to be having dinner with some of her coworkers.” He pulled out his wand and performed a quick Patronus. “Right, love, I know. I had a celebratory drink with Hermione and Draco. It all went fantastically.” He looked so proud that it made Hermione want to cry. “But, right! I’m on my way.” The Patronus skirted away. He looked patted down his pockets, making sure he had everything he needed. 

“Footing us with the bill, eh, Potter?” Draco teased. 

Harry rolled his eyes and threw down some bills. “Pay me back whenever you like, Malfoy; if you can.” Draco rolled his eyes and shook his head. The two men grasped one another’s hands. 

“Next one’s on me,” Draco warned. 

“Right, right.” Harry laughed. “Oh,” he said, suddenly as serious as a drunk man could be. “Promise me you’ll get her back safe, hm? No security with you.” He waved an absent hand around her person and shook his head. “And, you know,” he raised a finger and made a loop. “Public places,” was all he finished with, darkly. Draco laughed and promised.  

Then Harry turned to Hermione. “Brilliantly done, mate.” He kissed her once on either cheek and was almost flying out of the door before anyone could say another word.

 “Give my love to Ginny!” Hermione called after him. Harry raised his hand behind him and continued walking. Hermione chuckled and sat back down. All of the sudden she was alone with Draco. 

Her breath was coming to her short and her head felt light. She smiled and bit her lip softly. If he was looking for a sign, that was it. He got up from where he was sitting on the opposite side of the table to be closer to her. 

“I’m going to get another drink,” she announced. “Want one?”

“Can’t refuse the Minister.” 

She laughed and ordered herself a firewhiskey. She pointed at Draco, who was looking at her with raised eyebrows. “Better make that two,” he said with no small amount of humor to the waitress. She grimaced and went to get them.  

There was a pause and then Hermione remembered what he had said. 

“What’s this ‘can’t refuse the Minister’ business then?”

 He laughed awkwardly and looked towards the door. She leaned in closer to him. He glanced back and looked at her with wide eyes. “Please, as if any of your employees would dare go against you.” 

The waitress landed the firewhiskies near them. Hermione grabbed hers and took a drink. It burned pleasantly down her throat. “If they know better then they don’t. But some really don’t,” she said, darkly.

Draco chuckled softly. “Then, here’s to those who know better.” He raised his glass.

“Oh, yes, I’ll cheers to that.” Their glasses clinked. He was still avoiding her gaze. She was feeling bold. Something about not having slept half the night, coming down from such an intensely anxious experience, and being back near this man who had captured her was making her feel rather brash. The alcohol was not helping, either. 

“But you didn’t work for me,” she pushed. “You could have said no.” 

He gave her a look and then smiled. “Could I have, then?”

“Yes, of course!” She exclaimed, waving her hands. “I’m not some bloody goddess who must be obeyed at all moments.” 

“I see,” his twinkling eyes told her that he was laughing at her. 

“Yes, and you should feel free to. To say no. Whenever you want.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He was giving her the same kind of considering look. 

“What’s all that about, then?”

“All what?” 

“This. What’s this?” 

He bit his lip and blinked rapidly. He took a long swallow of his firewhiskey. He stayed silent, though.  _ What did I say? _ She thought. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I said but I –” 

“It was for you, Hermione.” He fixed her with his most serious look. “Everything I did, I did for you. Not because I didn’t feel I could refuse you. Because I wanted to do it for you.”  

She blinked a few times. She swallowed. No one had ever said anything like that to her before. No one had ever done anything like that for her before. She suddenly felt very seen. He must know, then – must know her. He must have remembered that she had been passionate about house elf rights since Hogwarts. He must have known that she wanted to achieve this. And he had helped make it a reality. “Oh,” she said in an extremely small voice. “Thank you.”

His cheeks flushed red. He threw back the rest of his drink. “I wasn’t doing it for your thanks.” They eyes locked and Hermione’s mouth dropped open slightly. “I know,” she said, feeling more vulnerable and exposed than she had ever before. “Thank you for helping me.” And then her voice became even smaller. “Thank you for seeing me.” His blue-grey eyes turned soft. His hand raised like he wanted to take her face in his hands. She looked at him, eyes wide. He dropped it, and instead leaned over the table, rolling his glass between his hands. 

“Draco,” He looked over his shoulder at her. She reached out and took one of his hands away from his whiskey glass. “Let’s get out of here.” She wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to say but it was what she wanted. He’d looked at her holding his hand in public in shock and then he leaned back into his chair, smiling. 

“Do you want to come back to mine?” He asked her, voice soft and deep. 

“Yes.” As his smile brightened, she felt suddenly incandescent and trepidatious about what would happen next.

 

Once inside of the flat, he took her coat. She watched his stride with purpose away from her and slide the hanger in the coat. While he turned from her to put it onto the coat rack, she came up behind him and wrapped her arms around him. A laugh rumbled in his chest. “Hello,” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder. 

She rested her head on his shoulder and breathed in deeply. “Hello yourself.” She’d just had enough to drink that she felt warm and fuzzy inside. She’d also just had enough to drink to make this whole hug-from-behind scenario seem like a good one. 

He turned around in her arms. “What’s this, then?” He cupped the back of her head with a long hand. She shrugged, loosening her grip and leaning into his touch. His other hand rested lightly on her hip and radiated heat into her skin. She brought her hand up to his cheek, tentatively. His beard was rough against her skin and it excited her. “Missed you,” she whispered, honestly. She felt slightly ridiculous. “Silly, I know.” 

“No,” He blinked rapidly, then pulled her in closer. “Not silly at all,” he mumbled. His warm lips found hers. The kiss was better than she’d remembered. She made a small noise in the back of her throat. It was intense and made her feel like she’d lost her center of gravity. There was just him. His smell, his taste on her tongue, the sound of his crisply ironed shirt crumpling under the pressure of her. She wanted every inch of him to touch her. She wanted. 

His gaze was soft and unfocused when they broke apart. “I’ve missed you.” His voice was rough. “It’s been torture. Being around you. Not being able to do this.” His hand cupped her cheek and she nuzzled it. “I know,” she said, looking into his face. She kissed the flat of his palm and then down his wrist. He watched her with his breath coming to him hard now. “Draco,” she breathed. His brows contracted and he kissed her like he needed her. 

She pressed into him enough that his back was against the wall near the coat closet. Somewhere in the back of her mind, there was a little voice telling her that this wasn’t the best place to be kissing someone, but she didn’t care. After the fourth or fifth kiss, he stopped her. “Hermione,” his serious expression was back. For one heartstopping moment, she was worried he would say that they couldn’t go on again. Instead, he said, “I want you. Is that okay?” Her eyebrows raised as her mouth dropped open a little more. “Yes,” She laughed with joy as she kissed him. “Absolutely yes.” His look of worry relaxed into a grateful smile. She nudged his nose with her own before returning to kissing him.

He made a small noise of happiness in the back of his throat before it turned into a groan. Her pulse was racing and she could feel it most between her thighs. She wanted his hands all over her. He kissed her deeply before taking her by the hand down the passageway and leading her into a bedroom. He smiled over his shoulder at her as he did. She had a quick glance around the bedroom, mostly to admire the long emerald black-out curtains and half-form the thought of wondering if this was what the Slytherin Common Room looked like before he kissed her again. Then her hands made fast work of pulling his shirt out of his pants. Her body was aching to know what it was like to have his bare skin against it. 

She pulled at the buttons while he kissed down the side of her neck. His hands had decided to travel down the length of her and his hands were now tight against her ass. His fingers were squeezing and he was pulling her close enough that their bodies were caught together. Then he started pulling up the hem of her dress as she pulled the shirt off of him. He had to let go to get the shirt off of him. He threw it into some dark corner of the room. Her fingers raced down his torso as his skin reacted under her fingertips. He leaned his head back and moaned. She already loved the sounds he made. With his neck exposed, she decided to see how much more noise she could get from him. She kissed down the length of his beautiful neck. He made another small noise in the back of his throat. She smiled and tilted his head up to kiss him again. She pushed into him so he had to walk backwards. She pinned him against one of the posts of the four-post bed. Now, she kissed down the length of his chest as he said her name softly into the dark. She touched a hard nipple. “Is this okay?” She whispered. 

“Yes,” he replied and then sighed as her fingertips traced over it. Then, she put her mouth to him and he inhaled quickly. As she did this, her hands were busy with his belt buckle. She made short work of this and they shimmied the pants off of him. From where she was crouched, she could see how hard he was already. If she wasn’t excited before, she was now. She kissed down to his navel and put a tentative hand where he was most hard. He made a dirty noise as his hips pressed it further into her hand. He felt like more than she had been expecting and this thrilled and startled her in turns. She rose up from the floor, her hand still on him. 

“Come here,” he growled before pulling up the hem of her dress. It slipped off from her in one easy motion. She made a noise in the back of her throat as he put his hands on her. And then he swore. He swore a few times. Then he looked her dead in the eye. “Hermione, you are so bloody beautiful.” She laughed softly. 

“Show me?” She dared. 

“Happily,” he replied. His hot hands slipped one of her breasts out of its cup and he asked her if it was okay for him. “God, yes,” she sighed as his warm lips encircled her. “Oh,” she whimpered. He was soft at first, sucking and making her feel all sorts of things. And then his hand went to the center of her. He pressed his hand to the flat of her like a question. “Yes, yes,” she breathed and guided him to where he needed to go. 

Now it was her turn to swear. His fingers dipped into the center of her. He groaned when he found her already wet. Then he came back to her hard nub and his fingers worked some kind of magic on her. She was not quite wet enough, so at first it had been a little uncomfortable. As if he knew this, he did some wordless magic and she felt herself glide against his fingers faster. God, it felt amazing. He knew exactly what to do and how to hit her pleasure spots over and over. “Draco,” she whispered. He let go of her one nipple and nuzzled his way over to the other breast. “You can use your teeth,” she suggested. He did and she leaned her head back, making all kinds of small noises. 

Finally, he dragged his teeth lightly down her nipple and her hands came down on his shoulders as she inhaled sharply. He groaned and stopped, coming up from his knees. “Hermione,” he whispered, “I need you.” She scrambled up onto the bed and lay back. He prowled up to her, kissing up her legs. When he got to her lacy pants, he pulled them down and replaced his fingers with his tongue. She made a noise. No one had ever – though she had imagined it. And this was better than any of her imaginings. He brought her legs up so he could get better access to her, and then threw her legs over his shoulder. He wrapped his hands around her hips and his tongue went to work. His rough beard only heightened her pleasure. She quickly lost herself in the sensation. He was working against her and she felt so wet. There was a feeling building up in her chest and her gaspings became shorter. As he was working her so wonderfully, he groaned and licked her harder. One of his hands came up to her breasts and he began kneading it, playing with her nipple until she snaked her arms above her. She could feel the bed move as he rolled his hips into it. She looked for a pillow she might be able to bite into – she was worried about being too loud. She couldn’t though. By that time, she was too far gone to care. What did it was when he brought his other hand down to her opening and began to rock into her. The pressure inside of her became too much. She felt like light was bursting out of her as she curled up around him. “Dr-draco,” she cried to him. He moaned again as his ministrations slowed. He saw her through the first wave, and gave her a second, and then a third. 

“Oh my god,” she gasped when he slid to join her higher on the bed. “Good?” he asked, with a hint of triumph in his voice. “Amazing,” she breathed. “But,” she panted, “I want to feel you.” His breath hitched in his throat. “Hermione, are you sure?” His voice was gruff. She looped her hand around his jaw and pulled him into a deep kiss. She could taste something musky, which must have been her taste. She didn’t care. “Please, Draco,” she whispered to him. “Please.” 

He slid on top of her, lacing his hand through hers and effectively pinning her to the bed. She loved it. Carefully, she took him in her hand and gave him a few strokes. He was so hard in her hand. She was breathless with anticipation. He slipped one of her legs over his shoulder again and then she lined him up. He pushed into her gently and she took a deep breath in. When he was fully inside of her, she swore out loud. Then, he came down on his forearms to rock gently into her. He looked into her eyes intensely. He was watching to see how she reacted. She didn’t have to perform. He felt incredible inside of her – like nothing else she had ever felt. She whispered his name to him and kissed him deeply. He moved inside of her like he was afraid she might break. She could feel him holding himself back. 

She traced her fingers under his jaw. He closed his eyes briefly. “What do you need?” She asked. 

“I don’t want to – unless you want me to.” 

She was confused for a moment, and then felt him slide inside of her with a little more pressure. “Draco,” she whispered. “I want you.” 

“But –”

“It’s okay,” she turned her face to the side and kissed his hand. “I want it.” 

This made him groan deeply and he hips picked up their pace. She leaned back into the mattress with a sigh. He had felt amazing before but now he felt perfect. Hard and strong and perfect. He slid fully out of her and then pressed back in her with enough pressure to make her gasp. She moaned his name to him and he answered with a caught sound in his throat. She had been so busy thinking about him that she was almost surprised when she felt the heat build up in her again. She flexed her hips up to meet him. Within moments, she gripped his hand and curled up around him breathlessly. He murmured her name to her, sliding his hand through her hair. “Yes, Hermione, just like that, yes.” She gasped and came again. This time, he came with her. He leaned his head back so that she could see the lean muscles of his body all the way down to where they were joined. It thrilled her to see him come, beautifully shuddering and absolutely lost to the feeling.

When he opened his eyes, she was cupping his cheek in her hand. He blinked like he couldn’t believe what had happened. Her body tensed. She wasn’t really sure what to say or do. Without looking at her face, he slid out of her. He lay next to her, facing the ceiling. She felt very exposed. And slightly cold. She tried to speak but her voice was hoarse so she cleared it and tried again. “I think I’d better, um,” and she was up and out of the room before he said anything. She picked up his shirt on her way out – not even sure if she was allowed to wear it but suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of being naked. In the bathroom, she sat on the loo as her thoughts whirled.  _ That wasn’t bad, was it?  _ She’d thought it had been quite good _ so why the awkwardness _ ? Why was she suddenly feeling like she’d made a terrible choice? And then her thoughts really spun.  _ Did he regret it – was that it – was that all that he had been after – was that all she had been after – it had been good for her but was she good at it – would he want her again – would he want her to stay –  _

She looked at her reflection with wide eyes. She was still flushed and there was a slack expression on her face like she was still slightly dazed. Which she was. Her hair was a tangle so she tried to smooth it. She reached for the shirt which was inside out, righted it, and put it on, hands shaking the whole time. And then she remembered what she had said. She had wanted him to finish inside of her and he had. But she didn’t want to get pregnant. “Oh God,” she groaned to herself, suddenly mortified.  _ Could she even get pregnant? Having a child at her age what was she thinking what was she thinking _ – She forced herself to take a breath and think. She had known the spell for it a long time ago.  _ Was it? No, it was _ , and she said the words to herself. She was almost certain she’d gotten it right. She’d stood in a bathroom like this saying those words enough times for her to remember. Her anxiety started to ebb as she continued to breathe. 

But she had to leave the bathroom at some point. 

Heart hammering, she turned off the light, and walked out. 

When she padded back into the room, she found him sitting on the corner of the bed. He was just in his pants and the beauty of his body hit her like a force. He was all long, lean muscles and sharp angles. While it was clear that he was active, there was a softness at his belly that she rather liked. He got up and walked to her. She stood, frozen, awaiting whatever this would be. Whatever nastiness or disapproval. 

There was none. “Hey,” he said to her, softly. “Where’d you go?” And she wrapped her arms around him and nuzzled her nose deep against his neck. He let out a small sound and enfolded her in a tight hug. She wanted to answer him but wasn’t sure what to say. That she had been scared? What was there to be scared of, he would say. Everything, she would answer. Not knowing if this was real, wondering if it was too real. It was all too much for her to handle.

But he kept holding her, pressing kisses head. She relaxed a little more in his arms. Finally, she cleared her throat. “I haven’t done this in a while,” she felt shy again. “I guess I was scared.” 

“Scared?” He pulled back to look in her face. She stared assiduously down at the carpet. “Scared of what?” 

“Everything,” she said, so quietly. 

“Oh,” he answered, pulling her back. She blinked rapidly. There was a pause. “I suppose I was scared too.” 

She gripped his upper arms. She felt like she could burst into tears. “Really?” She whispered. 

“Yes. Been a while for me too. A long while. And then you were gone. I couldn’t help but think –” She took a step back and pressed a palm to each eye. It was all a little overwhelming and her exhaustion was beginning to hit her. She kept her hand in his. She gave it a grateful squeeze. 

“I wasn’t leaving. Just going to the loo.” She laughed. 

“Well,” he shrugged, suddenly looking quite vulnerable. “I didn’t know.” 

“Oh,” she said, and curled herself back around him. “I’m sorry.” 

“Mmphm,” he said in her hair. “I’m sorry, too.” She moved her head around so she could kiss him. There wasn’t as much heat as there had been before but the kiss was languid. It felt like they had all the time in the world. And in it, she could feel something like embers waiting to be fanned if she wanted them to be. 

She touched his cheek. “You’re cold.” She whispered. 

“Yes,” he answered. “Come to bed?”

“Yes,” she said, and let herself be led there. 

There was something about lying in bed, enfolded in darkness and soft blankets with a lover that made Hermione whisper things to him that she never thought she might ever tell him. She told him how much she admired him and how she valued him. He told her things back: how fierce and determined she was, how smart, how much he respected her from afar. It made her feel light-headed. She told him how his writing has affected her and he kissed her deeply, and pressed the length of his body against hers. She could feel that he was half hard against her leg but she wasn’t quite ready to go again. He didn’t push for it, and neither did she. There was time, now. As they were settling to sleep, he had her curl into his body and he wrapped his arms around her. He laced their fingers together and then he fell asleep. She, utterly embraced in his warmth, fell asleep with a small smile on her face. 

When she woke up, his hand was still in hers. He had rolled over in his sleep but his arm was still reaching back to hold her hand. She was quite touched. Trying not to make too much movement, she inched over to him and cupped his body with hers. She brought her arm around him, so it would be more comfortable for them both, and he reflexively squeezed her hand in his sleep. She closed her eyes again and slept. She hadn’t been gone for long when she felt him kissing her forehead, her eyebrows, her cheeks in a slow and loving way. She opened her eyes and made a small questioning noise in her throat. He laughed quietly. He brought his hand up and cupped her cheek, kissing her on the forehead again. “You’re here,” he said, simply. It just about broke her heart. She looked at him, blearily. Then she reached up and kissed him. 

As she had known they would, the kisses returned to their earlier heat and passion. Soon, Hermione was very awake. After they’d established that they did want one another, she pulled his pants down and, kissing down the length of him, took him into her mouth. She knew a few tricks and pretty soon he was groaning out loud, knotting his hands into the pillows. She didn’t mind the feel of him in her mouth, maybe even liked how thick he was, but she liked making him make the noises he made for her. She wanted to know how to do it more. When he started panting her name, she decided they needed a change of pace. She shed her own pants quickly and climbed up onto his lap. She was beginning to feel proud that she could make him look so dazed. Draco Malfoy, who was always so polished and poised, looked stunned with his ruffled hair amidst the bunched up covers. She loved it. The thought that she was the one who could do this to him was what made her climax the first time, along with his fingers underneath her. The second time was when he decided that he wanted ride her slowly enough for her to dig her nails in his back and whimper his name. And the third was when he had her breast in his mouth and was thrusting deep into her while she had his fingers in her mouth. 

_ Not a bad way to start the morning _ , she thought, looking at him laying next to her and panting. He laughed and kissed her hand. “Not a bad way to start the morning at all,” he replied to her thoughts. 

“What!” She pushed him. “You can hear me?” He kept laughing. “For how long?” She demanded. 

“Hermione,” she was still pushing him. “Hermione, stop.” He laughed and caught her hands in his. His bright, satisfied eyes held hers. “Not all the time. It’s just,” he sighed and laughed. “Sometimes your thoughts are very loud.” 

She felt mortified. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I’m never going to talk to you again.” 

“Well, in some cases you wouldn’t need to.” She threw a pillow at him. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry.” He grabbed the pillow and brought it down gently between them. “I like it,” He looked shyly at the pillow. “Like hearing what you really think. But if it makes you more comfortable, I’ll start tuning it out.” 

“Yeah, that’d be nice, thanks.”  _ Oh God,  _ she thought, suddenly,  _ What on earth has he been hearing? _

“Well,” he answered, with a very sly grin. “Quite a few nasty things recently if I say so myself –” 

And she burrowed under the covers with a screech. 

 

It had taken a while to cajole her out from under the covers. He had offered an apology in the form of pancakes but she still hadn’t quite recovered. She looked at him narrowly as she poured her syrup. “Is there anything else you want?” He asked, all thoughtfulness and innocence. She glared at him. “Cup of tea would be nice,” she grumbled. He made a face like he was trying not to laugh and then did a little bit of wandless and wordless magic. Now that she was sure he knew how she felt about that, she shook her head softly to herself. She put her head in her hands. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner,” she moaned. “Oh no,” he said, as the mug and teapot came flying towards them. “Now you’ll just have to be honest with me about what you really think.” 

She glared at him and decided to have very quiet thoughts. That thought cheered her and she began to eat with more gusto. After that, they fell back into their usual patterns of chatting about everything they could think of, each impressed by and admiring of the intelligence of the other, while teasing and laughing with one another. Hermione could not remember laughing this much with Ronald. If she had, it had been a very long time. When he moved to do the dishes, she stopped him. “No,” she said, “It’s only fair.” And with other hand, she made another pot of tea. “Why don’t you go into the living room, hm? It won’t be a moment, I’ll catch you up.” He knew better than to argue with her so instead he picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. A mug of tea followed him out. 

As the dishes were washed and dried, Hermione had a poke around the cabinets to determine what went where. She sent all the dishes back to their appropriate homes and then carried her own mug out. She sat next to him on the couch. They started to talk, absently, about their day, Hermione was sure she needed to go back to the Ministry soon. She hoped that no one had noticed that she hadn’t been holed up in her office last night. He said that he had a few errands to run, shopping, things like that. Then he reached out and picked up the gold chain around her neck. “What’s this? I didn’t see it –” And his expression shifted once he held the blood-red crystal in his hand. He looked at her very seriously. “Hermione, this feels like a dark object. Why do you have it around your neck?” 

“How do you know what a dark object feels like? 

“My father collected them. Please don’t avoid the question.”

He was clearly upset. She looked at him with wide eyes and started in a very calm tone. “Before we got divorced, I  _ needed _ certain assurances from Ronald that he wouldn’t hurt me. That he would never try to hurt me – or the children – again – not physically or mentally or emotionally.” She looked down at the mug in her hands. “Not ever again,” she with feeling. “So I decided to have him make a promise that couldn’t be broken.” He looked at the small crystal between his fingers warily and when their eyes met, there was a terrible expression on his face. 

“Merlin, Hermione, what have you done?” He breathed. 

She clenched her jaw. She took a steadying breath and said, “I made him swear on a blood pact that he would never hurt me or the children ever again.” Draco dropped it and stood up like a shot. He placed his mug down hard on the coffee table and Hermione felt a thrill of fear go through her. Draco paced in front of her as she drew her legs up closer to her chest. He ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his face hard. Finally, he turned to her. 

“Why would you do such a thing?” 

“I told you – I needed assurances.” 

“Assurances?” He looked at her like she was mad. “There are other ways to get assurances. Restraining orders, property boundaries, wards, spells.” His voice was impassioned but he was not yelling. “There are a million different ways to get him to stay the bloody hell away from you but a blood pact is not one of them.” 

“Actually,” she said, not appreciating at all how he was speaking to her, “it is.” 

“No, Hermione, it’s not. Do you really expect this man to honor that pact?” 

“If he doesn’t, then it’ll backfire onto him.” 

“Great. So you’re okay with him gradually wasting away into nothing.” 

She found she could not honestly reply to that one. He looked at her like he didn’t know her. “I guess that answers that,” he said, eventually. “But what about you, Hermione?” 

“What about me,” she replied, snappishly. 

“What if you accidentally break the terms of your agreement. Did you even specify what kind of hurt it would have to be? What if you accidentally stepped on his foot? What if you gave Rose a papercut?” Hermione huffed and rolled her eyes at these dramatics. “These blood pacts are literal. They do not allow for any kind of leeway. Are you fine with that? Are you fine with the idea of dying, slowly, for years as your body turns against you for breaking something without even knowing why?” Draco let out a sob and covered his eyes. 

And then Hermione remembered how personal this was for him. She had been so afraid of him behaving like Ronald had done: screaming, throwing things, wild accusations, and violence that she had forgotten about Astoria. And it hit her. 

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, Draco.” She got up to touch him but he held an arm out to keep her away. “I’m so sorry,” she said, with sincerity in her voice.

“Sorry?” His voice cracked. He stared at her. “Do you understand what you’ve done? You’ve put yourself in the way of the most harm of your life. Harm that could come to you at any time and you wouldn’t know why. Something hurtful you said about Ron got back to him. That counts. You may as well be wearing one of those timed Muggle bombs. This blood pact is suicide, Hermione.”  

She didn’t know what to say. “I thought it was the right thing to do. I was scared. And alone.” She looked up into a corner of the room and tried not to cry. “I was so scared, Draco.” The truth in her voice made her realize her pain and she cupped a hand over her mouth to keep from breaking down.

He wiped his face. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I truly am that you would feel no other recourse than to put yourself into so much harm’s way.” He wrapped his arms around himself as another tear escaped. “And I am really sorry, but I cannot sit by and watch another woman die from a bungled up blood pact. I can’t do it, Hermione, I just can’t.” 

She felt like the floor disappeared from under her. They had just been so happy. And now this. “What do you mean?” She asked, very quietly. 

He closed his eyes like it hurt him to say it. “I can’t.” He had to stop and clear his throat. “I can’t be with you.” He fixed her with a very serious look. “Until you destroy that thing.” 

“No,” she said, flatly. “I’m not going to do that.” 

“Hermione, you must. I know that you’re scared.” Now she felt a tear leak down her cheek. She pressed her palm into her face and blinked. “But I will help you figure out a way to make sure he can never hurt you or Rose or Hugo ever again that doesn’t entail putting your life on the line.” 

“No,” she said. “What if those don’t work? What if he finds a way around them? I’ve thought about it and I don’t want to take that risk –”

“The weight of that risk is so much less than what you are doing now.” 

She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I won’t.” 

Draco looked at her despondently, his body moving in time to his heightened breath. “Then I can’t see you.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I can’t do this again.” He said, simply. 

Hermione looked at him with a pain in her chest. But he looked certain. “Ok, ok.” She blinked and put her hand through her hair. “I guess I’ll leave then.” 

Draco put his face in his hands. She turned to get dressed and to gather her things. He was sitting on the sofa when she came back out. His forearms were on his thighs and he was staring into his mug of tea. He didn’t watch her come in. “Right,” she said, extremely quietly. “I guess I’m off then.” He didn’t move. She closed her eyes and half shook her head. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want any of this. She had so hoped – but, she supposed, that wasn’t possible now. She opened the door, walked through it, and landed on the other side without him saying another word to her. She closed it with a soft click. A few tears came unbidden to her and she felt suddenly extremely alone. She thumbed her bag higher on her shoulder, wiped away her tears, and started down the stairs.

She was halfway down when a very large, ghostly stag met came out of a wall, scaring her half to death. Harry’s voice came out of it. “Tell me where you are,” he demanded. 

“Harry, what’s going on?” 

“Tell me,” he said, in his most serious voice, “where you are.” 

She told him. “Stay there,” he ordered. “I’ll come for you.” 

She stood outside of the building. Two minutes later, a very angry Harry Potter Apparated in front of her. He took a look at the building. “I should’ve known,” he growled, like a father finding a daughter who had stayed the night at her boyfriend’s (Hermione resented the comparison but it sprang to mind). He took a step in. “I told you. You were supposed to get back safely last night.” She stared at him. “Well I didn’t, obviously.” She stuck her hands into her coat pockets. “Now what’s got your Hungarian Horntail in a twist?” 

He gave her a very withering look and handed her that day’s  _ Prophet _ . There was a picture of herself, Ronald, and Evelyn Twycross on the front page all spliced together. Ronald had his arm around Evelyn Twycross and was looking happier than she had seen him in a long time. She tore her eyes away from the image of them smiling, laughing, and kissing.

 

_ “Liar, Liar, MoM’s on Fire _

_ By Rita Skeeter _

_ According to most trusted aides at the Ministry of Magic, the Minister and her husband, Ronald Weasley, have been divorced for the past seven months. If she has been hiding this from us for so long, what else has she been hiding? Even Wizengamot does not know. Members say that there have been rumors that the Minister has been having an affair of her own with a prominent Lord of noble lineage. Seems like Minister Granger only cares for the finer tastes – and leaves her constituents to fend for themselves. Can the Minister be trusted now? There are already calls for her to step down amidst this wild controversy...”  _

The vitriol intensed from there. Harry turned suddenly, hearing a noise. “We need to leave,” he said, “It’s too exposed.” With a  _ crack _ , they both disappeared right as a group of journalists with cameras came barrelling down the street. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was a great chapter to write and I hope you all love it as much as I did! <3 And I can't wait to hear your thoughts! ;)


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